


Wings

by Out_Of_Custody



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Teen Titans - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Wings, Arab Character, Blüdhaven, Demons, Friends to Lovers, Multi, Rom Character, Romany, Slow Burn, Triad - Freeform, rare, team to friends, عربي | Arabic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2018-09-12
Packaged: 2018-10-14 02:48:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 54,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10527261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Out_Of_Custody/pseuds/Out_Of_Custody
Summary: AU: Wings are a thingDick/Dami/Rae - the building of a relationship through years, trials and tribulations





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This story has somehow become something very dear to me - the idea was little; vintages at best, but it turned into THIS and I couldn't let it go until it was done and now it's this and I'm actually only happy that I managed to do this. Thank you for reading it and I hope you like it :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wings and their owners' minds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you feel like this story could use a Beta (you), let me know :)

 

+++

He doesn’t know a whole lot about his time with the Caravan, given that four of his nine years had been largely spent in non-cognisance of his surroundings and the other five had been spent exploring said surroundings and taking his familial and platonic environment for granted while learning to fly in a way that did not necessitate wings.

Which doesn’t mean that he has no memories of his time there; that’s not it at all – one of the most poignant images he has managed to retain in aching clarity, even up to this day, even after his years as a brainwashed and unwilling spy to an organisation founded and spear-headed by a former Nazi, are the colourful plumages of his _Flock_.

There is no memory where his own, almost black, feather-dress comes from when he can still see the vivid white-and-red of his father and the gentle dove-grey of his mother before his mind’s eye and has, since he could recall, always awed at the vibrant reds, blues, yellows and greens of the entourage. Always adorned with shimmering piercings, tinkling chains and bangles - his grandmother told him that _Gold_ was the only metal worthy to touch the wings of a Roma. Told him that the _Tears Of The Sun_ were the only dress that the Roma of ancient times would allow their skin to be touched by. Oh the days he’d spent on his _Puridaia’s_ knee, the woman who could read your fortune out of your feathers and who foretold him greatness in his life, the weeks he spent learning the language of wing and body from her.

It’s maybe because of this story that he hoards his family’s decorations – especially his _Puridaia’s_ – like a lunatic when the police finally release them into his possession and, for the first year, doesn’t once bother to even try and hide his Roma heritage.

He is certain that Bruce became almost fluent in Romani-curses given the frequency with which Dick employed them.

But then came _Robin_ and this persona did not have distinguishing characteristics, not to mention the fact that bangles and chains tended to provide unnecessary leverage for assailants – and so the decorations came down at night; and up in the morning again.

Because Richard Grayson had gotten used to being the _Golden Boy_ around Gotham High School – and when first Jason and then Tim came around, the moniker stuck; even as the _Tears Of The Sun_ vanished completely from his sombre plumage.

 

***

 

Damian doesn’t remember any other aviators than the mechanical protrusions from his back – they feel and act like wings for the most parts, so he cannot honestly complain, but he, too, is well aware that this is _not_ the plumage that Allah has blessed him with upon his birth. He knows because he can, especially on Gotham’s Rainy Days, feel the pulsing of the mottled scar-tissue on his back where his spinal cord has been replaced by an equally artificial one and fused with the devices on his shoulder-blades in order for it to function properly. The ache is but a minor annoyance but he is aware of it nonetheless.

The dyed titanium-alloy that the mechanical construct is made of frightens people – he knows this because he has used this to his advantage more than once. He’s been called _Death Of Ra_ by some of his more superstitious victims and his family’s army had been greatly interested in keeping this legend alive.

Until he realized that he had a father who was alive, against all heretofore considered odds, he had not ever entertained the possibility that the crafty masterpiece on his back would become a source of bitterness to him – being the useful instrument that had struck fear into many of his opponents.

It’s not until he sees the face of his father slacken into the all too well known expression of fear and shock that Damian registers the perverseness of his wings – his deadly contraptions – in what the Western World calls ‘civilised company’.

So while humanity around Damian Wayne beats its wings to zoom from A to B, he tucks the source of his quiet shame close to his body until the metal is warm from the heat his bronze skin exudes and bears the stigma of being _grounded_ rather than ever have to deal with the horror on his father’s face ever again.

 _Robin_ hasn’t had wings in a long time, so when Damian fills the footsteps of Timothy Drake, it might take him some getting used to, but his wings remain religiously tucked to the skin of his back where they protect him from ambushes – _Batman_ doesn’t even question that his assistant needs to employ the aid of technical devices to swing from one roof to another, _Bruce Wayne_  is sometimes found staring at the back of his son.

The whole world knows that Damian Wayne has lost his original plumage during a shocking accident as a fledgling and has since been _grounded_ despite the convincing prosthesis his father generously had had custom made for him.

 

***

 

She remembers learning to hover before learning to fly.

As it is, her wings had not yet developed that kind of strength when her magic first acted up and out and levered her out of her bed during a nightmare – she focussed on this talent even when her aviators finally catch up in both width and power. When she is grown up she has the capability of carrying at least three people if she were to fly.

Instead she stubbornly sticks to hovering.  
Wings tucked as narrowly as possible to her back under a cape that she frays at the end to camouflage the pointed ends of her father’s heritage.

Raven looks deceptively human for being half-demon so she’s only partially surprised that her wings were the one physical characteristic about her that would show off her true colours and genetic material to the rest of the world. She is beyond thankful that her mother’s magic saves her from the stigma – even now, even after her passing.

She doesn’t like the black-leather of her wings, thinks of the abominable growing-pains she’s had to endure for the most part of her youth and the constant fear of being found out even when she was amongst people closest to earning the denomination of ‘friend’.

Therefor _Raven_ has no wings; she is one of the blessed and rare heroes that have been gifted with the ability to hover – most speculate, correctly, that this is due to her affinity for magic – despite not possessing wings.

 


	2. Convergence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Triangles are my favourite shape, three points, where two lines meet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I had two more commentators than I thought I would have and a lot more kudos than I thought so WOW, thank you guys :3

+++

The world loses Barry Allen in the same moment that it regains Bruce Wayne. It is a bitter-sweet moment for most of the populace, the Justice League included – though, close as he is with Wally who aches with the disappearance of his mentor with a sufferance that is tangible to Dick, he finds but bleakness in the situation. Also because Bruce wants to retake the cowl, which doesn’t surprise Dick the least – no matter that Gotham has been his, _theirs_ , for three years now and giving up the cowl will mean giving up Damian.

His not-so-little-anymore Damian in whom Dick sees a young man that he can fall back on, a partner he can rely on no matter the threat – he doesn’t want to leave _his Robin_ behind, not when the younger Wayne is as much _Flock_ to him as the Circus Crowd has ever been. Not when he has _raised_ and groomed Damian in a way that his  Flock had him back in the day. Not when he’s been the only point of human contact for the last few years, the only person – besides Alfred, admittedly – whom he has turned to for hugs, whom he has turned to for company when his dreams kept him up, whom he has turned to for help when his wings were so battered and filthy that every single one of his feathers ached.

He’s not surprised when his hesitance and downright avoidance of the topic results in an explosive conflict that puts Dick out of the manor, out of the Wayne-Flock and out of Gotham.

His wings aren’t healed yet when he is approached by a man whose face he, still, cannot remember and Spyral looks like a good option; until he forgets his name and his goal and, for all intents and purposes, dies. He doesn’t think Bruce mourns for him – not really.

 

-

 

It’s three more years before Damian hears of the passing of his former mentor, his friend, the very man who has defended Gotham without a second thought when Father supposedly passed, and the man who singlehandedly tore down walls that the League of Assassins erected in his psyche since he’d been merely a gestational sac in an artificial womb somewhere in the bowels of Bialya’s Catacombs.

Dick Grayson has taken him into his arms and wings more often than Bruce Wayne has – soft plumage enveloping him in embraces he has not known before or since; he’s helped him recalibrate his aviators without a beat of hesitance; he’s given him _The Talk_ for Eagle’s Sake – redundant as it has been – and he’s stood up and dusted himself off to smile at Damian with the purest of intentions even when the younger boy had taken out his abusive confusion and frustration on him – metal wings and all.

When he realizes that Father kept Grayson’s death from him and confronts the Bat, Gotham’s Knight won’t even look into the last known whereabouts of the first Robin he’s ever had – the _Golden Boy_ , as Todd and Drake refer to the oldest of the Wayne orphans.

Leaving Gotham for Blüdhaven, Grayson’s _haunt_ before he returned to the Wayne-territory to take care of the Cowl as well as of Damian, is a no-brainer that takes Damian less preparation than he thought it would. He has wondered as to the former Robins’ avoidance of their learning grounds but knows now why Todd and Drake take care of Happy Harbour, leaving Gotham to The Bat – he knows now that there is nothing more this Nest can give them; that there is nothing that it can give _him_ now.

Pennyworth, with his bent and old silver Falcon wings gives him a sad stare when he finds him indecisively dithering between Grayson’s Bike and his own, Titus and Alfred watching quietly, confusedly. “ _Nightwing_ has not been particularly crafty in regards to mechanics.”—the Flock’s Caretaker informs him in his usual dry tone. “He has been exceedingly gifted in regards to the manipulation of his body, and has never had a single problem focussing on new subjects, but mechanics and technology have always been Master Drake’s forte rather than… Master Grayson’s despite his penchant for Mathematics.”

It pains the old bird to speak of the Deceased and something about Pennyworth’s cadence warms Damian’s heart, before he settles his backpacks on the seats Grayson’s black machine.

“Will you take care of the animals for me, Pennyworth? Until I can come to fetch them?”

The Caretaker’s inclination of his head necessitates no verbal confirmation and when Damian rides out to Blüdhaven, he leaves behind _Robin_ and dons the mantle of _Nightwing_ for a year to come.

 

-

 

Raven hears of Richard’s demise before she can feel it and the mere notion of it unsettles her so deeply, that she finds herself _en route_ to Blüdhaven before she can properly form a plan of action; she hasn’t even found what she’s come back to seek but she knows it can wait – knows that there will be another time.

There is a _Nightwing_ patrolling the streets of the old whaling town and putting mobsters behind bars; he’s all wrong though – Escrima Sticks heavy and blunt in his hands in a way she cannot remember them ever having been, movements choppy and precise but lacking the smooth flow of Richard "Dick" Grayson. The man protects Blüdhaven well enough; reckless though he is, he takes care of the citizens and so Raven comes to shadow him.

It’s the fact that his blue eyes are all wrong when they first pin her down on the rooftop from which she observes yet another run-in between him and the local Mob and that she cannot feel his mind in hers which seals the deal in her conviction that Richard might still be alive _somewhere_.

For about a week she is tempted to hop Realities and Times in search for him, but the desperation of the young man that she cannot stop to watch holds her back; in a way she is well aware that he needs her. She steps in four times over the twelve months when this _Nightwing_ almost loses his life but stays out of his melees otherwise. They do not talk to each other, and she leaves his side each time when morning comes.

 

***

 

Richard Grayson returns from the Dead on a June night; stumbles over the shambles of what amounts to his front porch in his fried mind and in his haze he does not comprehend the presence of the grown man in the black-and-blue costume coming to greet him or the metal wings that he thinks he must imagine spreading in a hesitant show of _wonder_.

He’s not certain if it’s his name that spills from the lips of the stranger before he succumbs to darkness again; he hasn’t been called anything but a Number for so long.

_37, 37, 37…_

 

-

 

He lets the woman Break and Enter Grayson’s deplorable excuse for a shelter – he doesn’t want to admit too loud that he’s been inhabiting it for a bit more than a year now, playing pretend in a uniform that is not his and will never be – and watches her from the corner of the room he has secluded himself into.

It does not surprise him that she is yet in another garb, for he cannot remember one night that she might have been wearing the same clothes – as if her sole identifying characteristic was the fact that part of her was always _changing_ and never quite the same. Damian knows her by the midnight locks that tumble past her shoulders and out of her indigo-hood of the ever-present cape around her shoulders. He has, too, never seen her with spread wings but always hovering – when she raises a powerfully charged hand that’s crackling electricity he can feel even in his spot, he is not surprised.

She does not harm Grayson though and when she leaves, Damian glimpses the blood-red gem atop her forehead, reflecting in the moon-light, for the first time just before her hood covers it again and she is gone; vanishing in thin air and into the night through the open window.

 

-

 

Now that the cowl of _Nightwing_ is back on Dick, Raven recognizes Damian Wayne – she has seen him go through many fates, one worse than the other and she finds this Reality not so bad; knows that he is protected as he can possibly be on Richard’s side.

_She has been after all._

There is something unstable about Richard that keeps her close, however, even though she could – should maybe even – go back to her Travels, but _Azar_ knows she feels bound to this timeline; feels as if… as if her migration has finally come to an end. It is a queer but beautiful sensation that spreads through her core and her chest every time her mind touches that of Dick’s and she feels the steely blue eyes of Damian Wayne on her.

She accompanies them out of a sense of indecision – until they run into Agent 39, a young woman that recognizes Dick even with the cowl as the civilian person he is and Raven can feel the turmoil in his mind even before she says the word and he crumbles to the ground; conscious lost in a devastating blank that frightens even her.

Damian Wayne is yelling obscenities at the other woman that unveil his sentiments for his old mentor rather than impress the young woman that, as Raven descends, she reveals to be Helena Bertenelli – or what is left of her; her mind is in a far worse state than Richard’s.

“Sleep.”—she commands in a quiet tone, stretching her hand out towards the once vibrant young woman as she kneels down next to her former team-mate, hands running over his face, the touch revealing more about the state of his mind than a cursory mental glance could.

“Would you rather carry him or would my method of transportation be acceptable?”—she asks the Wayne Scion when she stands again, gives him a direct look; he is more his mother’s son than in other realities she’s been to, it takes a bit of adapting.

“Carry him.”—the young man growls at her defiantly; she hasn’t expected a different answer – no matter what Universe, Damian Wayne has always been a paranoid, overcautious character, raised to rely on the fear he could instil in people and be wary of those whose foundations he couldn’t shake.

She is surprised when, in the weeks to come as she visits Richard more often to repair the damage to his cerebral system she has negligently left alone in the hopes it would mend itself, the Scion barely puts up a token of protest; even when Richard’s wings encase her just as solidly as they do him.

_She’s forgotten how good this felt._


	3. Enter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hush little baby, don’t say a word/ And never mind the noise you heard/ it’s just the beasts under your bed/ in your closet, in your head_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FIRST: Thank you so much for the comments <3 <3 <3 They make me so happy, thank you thank you thank you  
> AND SECOND!!!!! (and almost more important) I am proud to announce that I am currently having [Bela_Nightshade](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Bela_Nightshade/pseuds/Bela_Nightshade) as my Beta - it's the first Beta of my life and I am equal parts curious and excited :) 
> 
> small and cute chapter, cueing up for the larger ones :3 enjoy

+++

 

The regeneration of his mind is painful but effective and Dick remembers Damian, knows that he is too grown for Spyral to not have done something to his body (Raven tells him of his memories of chryo-stasis, but doesn’t want him to uncover them just yet; he agrees for the most part), and he remembers Bruce and Timmy and Jay as well and knows that he left Gotham for a reason.

His wings feel like _weight_ on his back when he looks at the parallel barres in the gym and he is stubborn in forcing his body to regain the lightness, the ease and smooth flow that Spyral has made him forgo, has made him _forget._

_Nightwing_ would have known that Hypno Implants could go two ways; Dick Grayson had been desperate for something to cling to (some cowl, some name, some _thing_ ) and he is paying the price. 

Raven and Damian are both pro-points on his list of why being returned is a good thing. He can almost not get over the fact that the moody teenager he has once worked with has evolved into this young woman bent over him and his head nearly every evening to repair more of the damage done to him by a Nazi Organisation. She has not changed in this way and yet has in all the others.

When he asks her what she has been up to, she gives him a small shrug and a secretive smile. “Travelling,” –she answers, and the word holds much more than she tells him. He can almost not wait for the time he finds it out. 

The old factory that he now consciously remembers picking as his hide-out is spartan around him save for that one level right at the top, meant to hold the offices, that Dick has chosen to remodel into an inhabitable unit until Damian officially moves in. He plonks his posterior on the solitary couch in what amounts to the living room and tells Dick with an air of finality: “I’m taking the room down the hall.” 

Dick cannot argue because he knows that Damian has left _Bruce_ to be here with him and he has missed _his Robin_ and the mechanical clicking of his wings in his sleep or in the mornings or during their training spars. 

What he has not thought of is the fact that Damian leaves his clothes and possessions _everywhere –_ as he promptly does in the condo-that-is-not-a-condo-Grayson-get-your-eyes-checked. Telling him to please clean up after himself is tantamount to pleading with the Great Wall of China and Dick chalks it up to _Assassin Nesting_. He voices this thought exactly _once_ in the presence of Damian and receives a glare and a ruffle for his pains. Given that ruffling feathers coming from Talia al Ghul’s son is commensurate with a horde of Halberdiers’ weapons clashing, Dick rapidly learns to keep his damn mouth shut. 

If he’s honest, he has too much empty space either way and the Baby-bat’s possessions barely take up room as it is; which is why he gets a marvellous idea one evening when Raven is yet again bent over him, working on repairing his torn synapses. She catches the flittering idea sooner than he can even fully work it out. 

“No,” –she tells him before he has even raised his eyes to her. 

When he does, he purposefully employs a set of eyes that he hasn’t used since Timmy. “Why?” –he asks silently. “I have at least one more room that is unused and I can sure make certain that you don’t have to constantly commute.” 

An unfamiliar strain of thought pushes against the back of his mind. By the feeling of it, he can easily identify it as coming from Raven – he must be getting better if she is starting to allow herself such slips, little though they might be. 

“I can’t, Richard,” –she says softly, hands stilling against his temple as she retracts the restorative magic from his body. He feels like a warm, fuzzy ball of cotton for about the blink of an eye before full cognisance sets back in. 

“You’re still with the team then?” –he hooks in; knows the answer even before he’s done asking. Raven isn’t; shakes her head in response. 

“Got somewhere else to go?” –She doesn’t exactly reply, not even with her body and it’s enough for him to gauge her situation. 

“Look. It’s a free room and we’re not even paying for it,” –he is careful as he sits up, closes his eyes against the sneaking sensation of vertigo, “If you want it, you can have it.”

She leaves for the night but returns the next day with a small backpack that she promptly deposits in front of the one room that is of yet left unoccupied — it sits there for about two hours before Damian gets fed up and pushes the bundle across the doorstep with a careful foot. 

It doesn’t occur to Dick until later that he has let the younger man make the traditional decision on whether or not a Flock-Stranger would be allowed in the Nest or not — it should, maybe, have been Dick’s move, putting that backpack into the room that is now Raven’s, but when he finds his former-and-again-team-mate pulling possessions out of the bag that should, according to the laws of _physics_ , not fit in barely an hour later, he smiles and finds himself looking forward to letting it happen. 

Raven’s bits and baubles — as much as they can be called thusly — join Damian’s in a much more orderly fashion. She brings a worn and tattered throw-rug that joins his loved-to-near-death-Fox-Plushie and the Robin’s black, satin monstrosity of a pillow on the couch. Her books join theirs in a shelf, and her copper-can joins the men’s Coffee Drip in the kitchen. Damian explains to him that it is for Turkish Coffee and compliments Raven on her choice of material; Dick would almost think that he is flirting if it weren’t for the usual aplomb accompanying his comment. 

A month later his old Escrima Sticks and Batarangs are hoisted on the wall amongst Damian’s assorted selection of weapons — all of which he’s finely trained in of course — and trinkets that Raven has found _Eagle_ _-knows-where_ interspersed with an announcement of _The Flying Graysons_ traveling with Haly’s Circus, a Wanted Poster with Damian’s younger face plastered all over it, and a Map of Azarath. 

He finds himself calling it _home_ in his mind more often than not.


	4. Nest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Let’s get rich and build a house on the mountain making everybody look like ants_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the many, many KUDOS :D I'm so happy that this story is getting loooooove :3 Thank all of you 
> 
> And THANK YOU [Bela Nightshade](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Bela_Nightshade/pseuds/Bela_Nightshade), thankyouthankyouthankyou for being my Beta :)

+++

It had not ever been a topic of discussion during his days in the Caravan, mostly because he’d been too young to really think about it or ask questions, and even his much beloved _Puridaia_ hadn’t breached the subject. In hindsight, he thinks it’s because the Circus attracted migratory birds more than any other kind and their nests tended to be temporary at best even under natural circumstances, so the train-carriages they inhabited could probably most aptly be described as spartan.

But then, that was before _Bruce_ and Dick might have allowed himself to be fooled by the gorgeous up-do of the manor – all courtesy of the fine hands and taste of Alfred – before The Bat; but once he’d discovered the Cave and the Trade of his new Flock, he returned to spartan surroundings; to not _needing_ to have.

If anyone had noticed his astute lack of nesting-sense then it was Alfred, who had provided all sorts of utensils over the years – none of which ever seemed to really stick.

So no.

Dick does not know how to build or even uphold a Nest – which, at a biological age of twenty-six, makes him a pretty bad choice of mate.

Not… that he would have the time for such trivial things, but it would be nice to at least have Damian stop glaring at him in condescension for his deplorable nesting-habits in a way that reminds him of the times when the Wayne was still a mere boy.

“I know…”—is all he says when the other man gives him a slightly incredulous stare over the state of the bed he has just rolled himself out of. He would be affronted that Damian so thoughtlessly invades his privacy if it weren’t the modus operandi for the Baby-Bat – complete with the judgy-eyes – ever since they first teamed up.

Because the bed of a Bird was supposed to be the very heart of their Nest; it was supposed to be surrounded by those luxuries that people held dearest to them and filled to the very brim with textiles and colours that one had the most affinity for.

Dick’s bed is a mattress on the bare floor with exactly one blue-dressed-blanket on it.

Damian need not know he has a Robin-plushie hidden under the corner of the blanket and a photo-album next to his mattress. He knows it’s too little; he feels it in his bones, but he doesn’t _know_ what else he could possibly fit in here? What does he need a bed for or a cupboard or more than one blanket or, Eagle forbid, _pillows_ for if he just has to leave it again when disaster strikes?

It is easier like this: he can fly away any moment he needs to.

Of course he can’t tell Damian – not in those exact words.

 

***

 

Building a Nest is something that her mother might have taught her, but as history went, Arella left her too early on in her life and Raven has never had the pleasure of having that particular talk with her mother. Demons don’t precisely nest, although they do build themselves their horde Caves when the time comes. She’s had books and encyclopaedias teach her the former and an incessant niggling at the back of her head teach her the latter – it resulted in Beast Boy loudly exclaiming about her negligent nesting habits when he’d glimpsed the merest edges of her room. At sixteen she thought she hadn’t done so badly.

After Trigon came and went, however, she could admit that the part of her demanding a proper Cave had maybe been a little overbearing and dominant in her decision making, so half of what she owned in her room went straight out the window as she started to rearrange her room a little more after the textbook. She’d trusted Robin’s discretion more than she trusted the fear of the Eagle that she could put into Garfield, so he was the only one of her team truly allowed to set foot into her room – the only one allowed to invade her privacy.

Seeing his own nesting-habits up close now clears up the question about his ease around her non-nest and why he never talked about her rather queer way of going about things. It would seem that the ‘Boy Wonder’ isn’t completely capable of everything after all. Not being perfect makes him surprisingly human in an endearing way.

 

***

 

Damian gives them two weeks. 

Because fair is fair.

He’s known of Grayson’s inability to nest for years now, starting with the time when they’d both still lived at the Manor. The First Robin had still been within the very influential grasp of Pennyworth and yet had not found it in himself to pay attention the Falcon’s increasingly desperate – and despairing – attempts of coaxing him into acceptable nesting-behaviour.

Which is why, until Oracle, Damian had considered Grayson to be a Bird of a different persuasion. Obviously the red-head nicked that particular theory, but when Damian had set to look deeper into the lack of his partner’s nesting habits, he had been deprived of the very man he’d meant to study for years to come. Father wouldn’t even _mention_ his name. He hasn’t yet, therefor, found the reason and it might be he never will – maybe Grayson is just inhibited that way; it could probably be worse.

It’s just a little bit of a let-down that his former team-mate and now-saviour is equally as incapable when it comes to nesting-habits though.

Damian had hoped that she would bring the much appraised ‘female touch’ to the condo – obviously he should have listened more to Brown and Oracle when they’d ranted about feminist theories and the antiquity of patriarchal descriptions of female attributes.

But even two weeks into their cohabitation, sharing patrols and meeting each other heads on in training, the woman Raven has only somewhat improved their living situation. She has organized them, he has to hand her that, and there are no longer any weapons in their entrance hall trespassers could easily take and use against them, but she is too cautious in her nesting, too much like Grayson in that regard.

Her throw-rug is comfy though. And suspiciously warm. (He has not fallen asleep curled around it, shut up.)

Thus Damian opens the chapter in his life that his mother had seen to prepare him for by finely honing every sense of artistry and aestheticism in him, despite the fact that it would have been inane to do so considering the life she’d had mapped out for him.

Damian Wayne, contrary to popular belief, is highly trained in the Art Of Nesting, and judging by the lack of coordination stemming from his partners, he will have to do all the work.

So he starts with pillows.

Because everyone likes pillows and they are inconspicuous.

Also: they are at the very top of his list.

Within the first week of his plan, he evenly distributes the pillows in the condo, most of them on and around the couch in the living room, some – like an afterthought – in Grayson’s room (he catches the older man snuggling into an assortment of blues a few days later) and some at the doorstep of Raven’s room (she leaves the ones she doesn’t like in her Nest in the living room).

The woman Raven catches on during the second week of his plan, as Damian doesn’t even bother to hide his actions. He does, however, make errand runs to accumulate more blankets, throws and curtains. The pillows have yielded solid results and Damian is by then already well aware of Raven’s affinity for pearl-to-champagne-white and indigo while Grayson remains an unsurprisingly staunch believer in blues. The amber to gold colours throw Damian off guard a little, but when he takes a step back to observe, he realizes just how well their chosen _tinctures_ match and mingle with Damian’s maroons and blacks.

At the end of week two, the couch is drowning in blankets and pillows and is the most sat on furniture in their condo; Raven’s throw is always peeking out from some corner and always easily accessible.

When he finds Grayson fast asleep on it, curled into himself so tightly that he can almost not see him under the mass of his wings, Damian doesn’t look smug. He does however click his tongue, relishing in the sheepish expression that the man shoots him when he wakes immediately and with a start.

He’s not done yet; there are still supplies to acquire and a Nest to build.

The curtains go up next, soft gauze on the inside, heavy brocade on the outside. In the evenings when the windows are open and the three of them congregate in the living room, he can sometimes observe the woman Raven meditating over the polished edge of his katana, locking her eyes to the swaying soft tissues dancing in the breeze with a far-away gaze, her own cape swaying in rhythm. It’s an oddly calming picture.

He brings rugs in their _tinctures_ and of all sorts, most of which end up in the living room, while some are stolen from their original whereabouts and relocated to private rooms. He knows that they are much appreciated when Grayson relocates their Yoga sessions to the comfortably plush setting in their living room instead of on the training mats.

When Richard Grayson melts into _Halasana_ with a satisfied groan on the woven maroon rug that spreads over the majority of the living room floor, Damian feels pretty damn close to smug.

But even then, he has not yet checked every box on his list.

Coming back one afternoon from yet another purchase-run, during which he has procured adequate casings for their respective as well as shared light-sources, Damian finds Raven carefully hovering the assortment of his weapons to specified places on the living room wall. He has almost forgotten about the boxes in the gym and when he surprises her, his Chinese halberd – the first weapon he’d ever mastered – clatters to the rugs in a softened thud at the same time that the indigo fairy-lights do.

“We do not have _the bones of enemies_ , nor do I feel like procuring any.”—the woman says carefully as she levels her hand toward his halberd and floats it to a place close to his spears. He knows by the intonation of her voice that he has been careless and she has somehow managed to access his list – he doesn’t know how, but the fact that she has accomplished this demands a certain amount of respect from his side.

He clucks his tongue impatiently to hide his annoyance at his slip and frowns a little. “Anyone can access my weapons here, Roth. I thought the idea of moving them out of the entrance was to avoid this.”

The woman Raven gives him a dead stare as she slots the weapon into place with a gesture. When he had first entered the Wayne Flock, with Grayson already firmly in place at Father’s side, he had wondered how the older man came to accept him so easily and flawlessly; this wonderment had only increased when, upon Father’s demise, Grayson had easily shown more aptness at handling Damian than Father ever had.

It occurs to him these days that exposure to the woman Raven might have given Grayson some insight on how to handle ‘prickly-porcupine-people’.

“They can try.”—she answers primly, fingers crackling with unknown but familiar energy, and as he gives the hoisted weapons a considering look, he almost _wants_ somebody to try now.

He checks the boxes for _security_ , _bones_ and _light_.

Grayson doesn’t need to know about the second though – he is certain that Roth understands.

She is also most helpful with the procurement of _flowers and other greens_ and dispersing them liberally throughout the Nest that Damian now cautiously dares to call _home_ – and he doesn’t have to glare at Grayson any longer, which is a welcome reprieve on his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, for those who're curious: the Summaries are excerpts from songs, except for the Prologue, because I like the idea and went with it :b   
> Chapter 1 - Convergence: Alt-J, Tessalate,  
> Chapter 2 - Enter: Metallica, Enter Sandman   
> Chapter 3 - Nest: Ingrid Michaelson, You and I


	5. Tongues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I speak because I can, to anyone I trust enough to listen. You speak because you can, to anyone who’ll hear what you say._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you [Bela Nightshade](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Bela_Nightshade/pseuds/Bela_Nightshade) for yet again a wonderful chapter editing, thank you so very much you are an incredible help :)

+++

 

He likes to think that they learn each other by accident. It’s not exactly true, but it is a sentiment that cements itself in his mind over the next few weeks.

As summer comes to a close, so do his sittings with Raven as she declares him relatively healed in a ‘cautiously optimistic’ way as she herself describes it. Dick takes it as an excuse to jump headfirst back into Blüdhaven’s Night – literally. Even, or maybe especially, with both Raven and _his Robin_ back on his side, he dives from the highest skyscrapers he can find to spread his wings mid-air and sail through the night.

Damian’s tongue clicking and grappling-arrow-hiss follows him as loyally as the crackling of Raven’s energy.

It is during the first late-summer-sees-first-autumn-nights that he finally manages to truly head back into the underbelly of the city he has chosen as his territory – there are some sky-rats shitting on his sacred ground and he can’t have that.

They learn that Raven is not only good for the Occult, but for all sorts of outlandish languages and he comes to accept it as one of her intricacies, little pieces about her that simply _are_.

He’s been well aware of Damian’s firm grasp of the Arabic Language – good grief but the kid had jabbered off his head once for about a week when Dick had made the faux-pas of proposing bacon for breakfast during their early period of working together. As a result he is, now, aware of the precise pronunciation of ‘ _ḥ_ _arām_ ’ as well as ‘ _ḥ_ _alāl_ ’. If pressed he might even be able to write it from memory, considering Damian had gone as far as to procure slide-shows.

_He still hasn’t – entirely – forgiven Tim for his involvement in those…_

And during his Teen Titan days he has learned about Raven’s proclivity for the obscure, but her knowledge about dead languages doesn’t really rear its head until an Arkham-Escapee called _The Celtic_ pops up in Blüdhaven and wreaks havoc with all sorts of incantations that none of them have heard before.

It takes them about a week, during which Damian growls at his biological father on a near-to daily basis to stay away from their territory over a phone that starts to sport cracks Dick is certain weren’t there when he got it, before something clicks with Raven – he doesn’t quite know what – and she tilts her head, stilling, in the midst of a fucking skirmish with _The Celtic_. Damian has to physically tackle her out of a danger-zone and nearly bites her head off when they roll to their feet.

“Stop.”—Raven’s voice, for all that it is dry and quiet, holds all the command that he needs as of that instance and even though he cannot _see_ her behind him, he knows she does something that equally makes _The Celtic_ pause in his assault.

When she appears at his shoulder, her right hand is twisted a little awkwardly, fingers stretched towards the ground. _The Celtic’s_ eyes shine with curiosity even as he cocks his head, titmouse feathers slowly sleeking back into their natural state rather than the ruffled mess they’d been but moments prior.

Raven sighs, digs for something in one of the pouches on his utility belt with a jolting touch that makes him momentarily jump; she glowers at him when she fishes some chalk out – Damian makes a clucking noise (it’s _useful_ okay?). As she kneels down, he flexes his hands on his Escrima sticks, wings dithering a moment between stretching over her and instinctively remaining in their pose of aggression. He chooses the second only when Damian’s imposing form inches into the periphery of his vision, covering Raven’s exposed back with a fierce scowl and a hard grip on his titanium _bokken_.

When _The Celtic_ lays eyes onto Raven’s scratchings a moment later, he _trills_ with mad happiness and tears in his eyes that Damian scoffs at. Raven relaxes next to him, the shimmer of power leaving her eyes as she uncovers her head and extends her hand in a quiet invitation for their adversary to sit down as she says: “ _Branogeni.”_ —in a close copy of the language of _The Celtic_ , indicating herself. As she points to Dick, she smiles very carefully in a way that lets Dick know she _studied_ for this kind of battlefield-negotiation. _“Catabar,”_ —she specifies, and then, giving an indirect sweep into Damian’s direction now at her other side, she intones—“ _Cattuvvirr_ ”.

 _The Celtic_ does cry.

Because, as it turns out, he’s a man lost in time and would very much like to return to his wife and kids in 9th century Wales.

It’s the first instance she manages to stump them – him – with her repertoire of dead languages, but certainly not the last (there’s Latin – _naturally_ – and other languages he can’t even pronounce), and when he asks her where she learned them she always gives him the same unsatisfying yet titillating answer: “Travelling.”

 

***

 

When Raven hangs up a small token of _The Celtic_ in their living room, a hand-made prayer-doll, she catches Damian’s eyes gleaming at her from the darkness of the hallway – she’s heard them be described as expressionless, as cold and calculating but over the times that she’s travelled, throughout the realities she has been to, she has never seen him quite so. There is always, to the corners of his eyes, an emotion that he means to hide.

He has been well trained in the art of masking his feelings, of smoothing out his face until nothing but evenness remains, and, in the best of cases, even preventing and avoiding them; but _this_ Damian Wayne is not aware of her journeys and her knowledge – he doesn’t know that she can see the tiny grain of _wonder_.

 

***

 

Damian learns quickly that his new team-mates are not what he has previously assumed of them – not entirely anyways.

Something loosens between them, gives, when the woman Raven admits to being well versed mostly in dead languages due to her Travels – the way she says it is not quite _right_ to him and he gets the feeling that she means more than they can currently understand, but he cannot prove it and so has to accept the answer (for now) – and saves a man with knowledge that is supposed to have died ages ago.

He himself has been known to slip into his mother’s tongue when in various states of aggravation or excitement (Bart has certainly never complained) but even he is just as stumped as Grayson when it comes to such passed linguistics – even if it might ‘just’ be Latin; the woman Raven is very surprised when it is revealed that this has not been in their curriculum despite their supposedly elite education. But this give in the heretofore insecure and rigid bonds between them means that, for example, the woman Raven begins to leave out ancient texts and scrolls that she has previously or is presently studying.

It is, perhaps though, best described in the way that Grayson, in the mornings, loves to turn under his many blankets muttering a sleepy _‘Nash Avri’_ into Damian’s direction – or the way he will smile an equally somnambulist _‘Gestena’_ at the woman Raven who is an earlier riser than either of them and would find it in her to prepare their caffeinated beverages. Damian is certain that the words originate from some kind of language, but he cannot properly place its provenance.

“It’s Roma.”—the woman Raven tells him one day when she finds him attempting to compile a list of possible language families that his partner’s utterings could fall into – maybe he would have had a better chance of remaining undetected in this endeavour if he would not have tried to solve this puzzle on the couch in the middle of the living room. “It’s the language of his original Flock.”

“You are versed in it?”—he asks her, because it would not surprise him… considering.

The woman Raven perches on the side-arm of the sofa, prompting his tongue to click impatiently – this behaviour will compromise the structural integrity of the furniture, unnecessarily if he might say so – but she shakes her head, gently. “There are so many dialects and, considering it’s practically dead, one cannot learn it properly. Mostly because the pronunciation is uniquely difficult to get a grip on without a native speaker.”

Damian tilts his head, curious. “But then how do you know?”

He almost expects of her to tell him that she’s learned on her _Travels_ – because, as of recent, that is her answer to everything. Something in his face has to betray him, because there’s a smile on hers before she shakes her head – not in a condescending fashion, but rather a wistful one.

“You live with Richard Grayson long enough, you pick up some hints here and there.”—she carefully slips the pages in the encyclopaedia balanced on his knees to show for the dialects that he hasn’t considered at all, mostly because they are so far out of his mind’s grasp that he struggles with their mere concept, though this admission would never pass his lips. “I’ve managed to narrow it down to the Kalderash-dialect.”

And thus Damian starts to listen more closely to the garbled noises that Grayson emits – there is a surprisingly large array of Russian in his day-to-day vocabulary even though Damian is not quite certain about its provenance, but mostly he is oddly satisfied whenever he manages to capture another piece of Dick Grayson’s original Flock language. Enough, even, that when Grayson starts to swear colourfully over their comms, he can share a sort of commiserating glance with the woman Raven and make out about half of it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary Text taken from _Laura Marling: I Speak Because I Can_  
>  If you're curious about the strange language Raven speaks/draws, find a wiki-article on it [here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ogham_inscription)  
> Tl;dr-version: Branogeni translates to Raven-born, Cattuvirr (as it is written) is said to mean Man of Battle, whereas Catabar would mean Chief in Battle – I thought it fit them the most in that case :) The sign she makes with her hand is the Níon, in times of war when this Ogham was erected it was believed that the party wanted peace… says a History Prof I have as a friend


	6. Heritage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I want you to tell them about/ three little birds on the wire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always I give the best and most heartfelt of thanks to the lovely [Bela Nightshade](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Bela_Nightshade/pseuds/Bela_Nightshade) who makes working with a Beta fun and reliable :) Thank you :)

The scientific explanation is simply ‘evolution’ – clear and concise and not really in-depth in regards to the general populace. Of course there are studies of old skeletons; archaeological finds make it abundantly clear that, at one point, mankind had been wing-less. Dick can accept the fact that their scapula evolved into being able to support wings on a humanoid body – he’s learned anatomy at the knees of his _Puridaia_ , just at the same time that his parents started to integrate him into the routine. What stumps him is the fact that there are different _kinds_.

And that the richness in species cannot be directly related to the geographical provenance – which had previously resulted in people defining themselves by their Flock-adherence rather than their supposed ethnicity and thusly provoking entirely new arguments about boundaries, warfare, trade, and mobility all over the world. That had been ages ago.

He remembers Jason and his beautiful _blues_ , and he remembers Tim with his unusual _white_ , Alfred with his mottled _brown-black-whites_ and of course Bruce with his _pitch-black_ Raven-feathers that had been running in his ancestry for ages now.

Which is why Dick thinks that there must be quite a healthy amount of it in Damian as well; he hasn’t gotten a good look at Talia to be quite honest, but from what he can gauge she’s at least part _cuckoo_ – which, yeah, explains the twisted mess that is Damian’s family life at least.

There is, however, also Raven.

Dick knows that Raven is not _grounded_ , that she hovers most of the time, but he is also well aware that her mother had been part-Crane and that Raven had inherited much of her genetic material; more, possibly, than should be normal in her case because the priests of Azarath had meant to stifle the foetus’s demon side in order to keep Arella alive and had thought to do so by converting Raven fully into a human.

While he is not clear on all the details, even with his renewed connection to Raven, he is well aware that she has wings – he’s seen… into her. He remembers that the _fledgling_ he’s found in Raven, way back when, had been sporting the beautiful, downy white, black-tipped wings of a Crane.

Which is why he doesn’t – always – feel guilty to call her _Crane_ instead of her chosen ‘Raven’ whenever she dresses in white garbs; the colours suit her skin-tones impeccably and he has even caught Damian observing her more often than not when the woman wears brighter tones, something undefinable in his eyes.

She has always been graceful, even during puberty, when her body should have been at its most awkward, but when he catches her fighting posture these days – especially when she is dressed in white – he cannot help the flash of _beautiful_ that dances across his consciousness before he refocuses on his task, whatever it might be at the moment.

 

-

 

Damian catches on to Grayson’s proclivity to call the woman Raven by another name whenever she wears white and assumes that there must be a particular reason for it – after all, he has known the woman longer than he has known Damian, and there is a link between them that he cannot quite explain, lest of all comprehend, but he goes with it, because as much as he desires to tell his partner to stick to the plan and to get his head where it belongs, he himself is equally guilty of looking too long when the woman Raven dresses in lighter tones than the black and blue he has grown to originally associate with her.

He has learned not to throw stones while sitting in a glass-house.

Ironically so at Grayson’s side.

And he doesn’t know why – except for the fact that Grayson’s little word-play gives the woman Raven a softer feel to her usual edges – but he finds his fingers folding paper into shapes every time the woman is dressed in white, leaving the origami cranes some place she can find them.

Whenever he looks an hour later, the folded paper is gone and the woman Raven seems to shine a little brighter.

 

-

 

Raven knows what they are doing - even if she thinks that they are not quite aware of it - but she cannot find it in herself to stop either of them really. There has not really ever been a time when she has been looked at in such a light – not in any reality.

And being the centre of the attention of the two ex-Robins – however momentary this might be – is a sensation that she does not quite want to give up.

She doesn’t know what this reality has in store for her – for them – mostly because she knows how fickle _reality_ can be, that every decision this version of her makes spawns another version in another reality. She knows that most of _her_ have not had a pleasant life and if she can have this, then she is not going to deny herself the luxury of it, however brief it may be; she feels like she has earned it after her years of _travelling_.

So when she lets Dick’s subtle flirtation wash over her and when she finds the folded origami cranes that she has come to collect in a large glass-jar serving this purpose only, she loosens a little around the edges and lets herself be caught swaying to the music of the decrepit radio Richard has saved from some yard and put into their kitchen for the _ambiente, or_ even singing. She remembers her mother’s _need_ to express herself this way, and feels herself revelling in the way her Crane preens at the acknowledgment that she does not know how to accord it.

 

***

 

Knowing that Damian has at least a very large heritage of _Raven_ in him makes it easy – sometimes – for Dick to appease this side of him; he is a little wary of the _Cuckoo_ , considers it to be a treacherous and cocky part of his former Robin, but then Damian himself is rather good at feeding it, so Dick goes for the part that he leaves unattended.

With Ravens being social and downright familial creatures, combined with the fact that neither Talia nor Bruce for that matter have necessarily been stellar parental figures, there is a large playing field left wide open for Dick.

Even before his disappearance he had worked hard to soften the edges around Damian with affectionate touches that he neither telegraphed nor warned the then boy about, but ever since his return, he cannot seem to keep his hands to himself.

While he has always been open and affectionate with the people surrounding him, Damian – his little brother, his Robin, his partner – has always had a special place among those people that Dick dared to let his guard completely down around. Because even if Kori, Roy, Kaldur, Barbs, or many others had been a part of his life in a way that would never be replaceable, they had not seen him after nightmares, had not seen him when pushed over the edge, not like Wally had, not like Raven had – forcefully, considering their bond – not like Jason, Tim and Damian himself had.

And Damian especially was in a position of high importance to Dick, given the fact that, for three years, he had very nearly been the sole human contact, aside from Alfred – whom he was ever so grateful for, he felt as if the old _Falcon_ was closer to a father-figure than even Bruce was after all these years – that the younger man had seen him in all sorts of states of being. From drugged up on one of Ivy’s poisons to battered and bruised from a run in with another villain to high and giddy and drunk on either sugar or alcohol, Damian had lived with him, through him and at his side. There were still nights when Dick would steal into the privacy of Damian’s room to dive under the many throws and blankets of the Wayne Scion and curl into a protected ball under the cold but rapidly warming metal of Damian’s mechanic aviators.

So even when Raven is right next to them Dick doesn’t hold back; he drapes himself more or less artfully over the annoyed man and shares body heat that he knows part of Damian enjoys and soaks up but will always complain about. He pulls him into a companionable hug after patrol, wings reaching to brush Raven’s shoulder, hands, or chin. He is more careful in her regard, because he remembers her now, fully, and sometimes it’s all she can endure.

 

-

 

Raven notices what Richard is doing.

In those moments after a victorious felling of the night’s deviants, he likes to drape a cocky arm around Damian – _Blackbird_ – one of his wings curling around the shoulders of their youngest team-member, alongside his arm, while the other wing would carefully reach for her. It’s not always a solid gesture, doesn’t always land, but the implication of willingness to do so if only it were her wish is there. Sometimes Raven finds her fingers reflexively respond, brush along the gentle down of his feathers and she relishes in the spike of pleasure that sears through her at the action.

She doesn’t know what species Damian is, because while she is well aware of the twitches underneath his capes and his armour, he always makes a point to shield his back from her sight, to keep his wings tucked close to him and out of view.

It is obvious in the way that Richard tends to shower him in affection that their oldest is playing into the nature of Damian’s bird. Which… yeah, they’re _Flock_ and given the fact that they like to pay attention to her _Crane_ , she assumes she’s at least Flock-adherent and that… well.

_That_ she wants to pay back in equal terms, which is hard if she doesn’t know how to.

So she sits down to meditate one evening, accumulate all possible intel she has gathered about Damian Wayne over her years of _travelling_. It is not a lot because she has made it a point to never interfere too much, and Damian is always a secretive character, no matter where she has gone.

After an hour of relaxed introspection, she opens her eyes to come to a conclusion that should have hit her in the face the first time around – Bruce Wayne is so much _Raven_ that there have been whispers about him being a last remnant of _The Olde Famylies_ , and Damian Wayne, being Bruce’s biological son, must have a considerate amount of his father’s genetics.

She raises her head from where her eyes have dropped to watch the city lights reflecting in the water of the bay, catching _Dick_ in the reflection of the windowdraping himself over Damian’s lap in an effective if apparently annoying way – at least judging by the scowl etched onto the younger man’s face as he polishes one of his jittes. It is almost obvious now that she has come to the realization.

Since she does not have the closeness to drape herself over Damian like Richard does, however, she decides to appeal to another part of his _Raven_ and invests in a few logic puzzles that she leaves lying around for Damian to find when he returns from a rather unsatisfying patrol, or when his day has been going poorly.

Raven is certain that both men are aware of her tactics, Richard because he never fails to reward the other man with physical contact, rather than praise him verbally, whenever he manages to solve a puzzle, and Damian because he gifts her with a white star-cube one day. The puzzle is a little beyond her, especially without help, but she likes to look at it and gives it a go every now and then – and if she finds Damian doing crosswords with Richard on their mornings off then she certainly doesn’t lose a word over why the younger man would ‘lose his time’ with the other if he is so frustratingly ill-educated as Damian claims. Richard is pulling his pigtails, but, again, she’s not losing a word over the ordeal.

 

***

 

Damian assumes that a substantial part of Grayson’s heritage is _Magpie_ considering his tendency, once encouraged, to ‘hoard pretties’ as the woman Raven puts it. She is not wrong in this assessment of course, even though he considers her wording to be lacking in her usual eloquence. Grayson does, however, start to pull more than a few bangles and baubles into their Nest that have no real use but to glitter and shine in reflection when the sun hits them just so. It doesn’t pass his notice either that Grayson’s eyes will always follow the distorted image of reflected sunbeams on their ceiling.

Or that he tends to leave his baubles somewhere precarious.

Where Damian might step on them at five in the morning.

Barefoot of course.

Naturally, during his stay at Father’s Den, he had researched his predecessors and had found ample photographic evidence thanks to Alfred of each and every single man that had ever been at Father’s side, both before and after their discovery of the Trade of the Wayne-Flock. Grayson himself had been the most obvious about his integration into the extracurricular activities, given the fact that the baubles and jewels that Father’s documentation identified as  _Flock-inheritance_ were at first liberally applied to Grayson's plumage before discovering the Trade. Afterward, the decorations slowly minimized, until Grayson's wings were left devoid of the embellishments.

It no longer came as a surprise, then, when people who _knew_ tended to call Grayson ‘The Golden Boy’.

And try as he might, Damian cannot help but stop in front of a shop window when a particular piece of jewellery blinks up at him from its modest pedestal some time in November. He knows that Grayson would like it; Grayson is a fan of all kinds of shiny things, but this is a special kind of shiny. It has taste, for one.

But also, it’s a wing-ornament and while _Nightwing_ might not be able to don it, he is not so certain about Richard Grayson – outcast of the Wayne-Flock and last living member of the Grayson-Flock. He assumes that, even if the man were not to wear it, he would, at the very least, appreciate its aesthetic.

So he acquires it.

And promptly gets rid of the velveteen box it comes in.

 

-

 

Raven has long known about Richard’s love and adoration of all things glittery. She’s dared to ask him about it exactly once, but even upon introspection and a discussion about his memories he had not been able to tell her what _species_ he hailed from. They have, however, conceded that there just might be a healthy dose of _Magpie_ involved – because while Richard Grayson could be a blind, blind man when it came to interpersonal matters, he was his own worst critic and well aware that he had a ridiculous _Faible_ for shiny things.

He was very careful about it during his days with the Teen Titans, she remembers; while he would sometimes get a little distracted by the metallic reflections of sunbeams and stop to look, he would never allow himself to give in and investigate. But sharing a mind with Richard… unveiled some secrets, one of them being the hide-out of what he considered to be his treasure under a false panel in his wardrobe.

And she has, once the silence has been broken, always been on the lookout for gems and jewels and, well, things that the more unpleasant part in her considered a _hoard_ really. And she _has_ been to so many places…

So when Damian first leaves a new bauble lying around somewhere, Raven follows very much suit – leaving an equally beautiful piece of jewellery for Richard to find.

By some unspoken agreement, both Damian and Raven decide that it is too easy to spoil Richard – there is something about him that wants to be buried in treasures, something that wants to drown in a _hoard_ , so they pace themselves, shoot each other dubious looks when one cannot resist leaving a new bauble for Richard. It works – most of the time.

 

-

 

Except that Dick knows exactly what the two of them are doing, and while it’s nothing that they would not be doing for anyone else in their little makeshift-Flock, it still warms him to the core when he finds yet another trinket in the condo-it’s-still-not-a-condo-Grayson.

There is a rhythm to these gifts, he’s noticed, though he has not yet detected the cause for it – only that, sometimes, when the rhythm is being broken, Raven and Damian usually share reproachful looks that they think are stealthy.

But he approves of the growth that his treasure experiences, likes to hide the baubles – especially the ones he’s been gifted and hadn’t had to find himself – with his _Flock-inheritance_ in a specially made chest that lies closest to his bed (because he now has a bed: a wooden bedstead that smells like cedar now and then, when the sun illuminates it just long enough) and that he can open at a whim whenever he feels like it.

He’s not, yet, back to dressing his wings in the _Tears Of The Sun_ again, though it happens every once in a while that he slips on one of the more inconspicuous baubles – a necklace or a bracelet – when in his civilian persona.

And maybe he tricks Damian into possessing a gilded _galb_ , that he knows without needing to see blends beautifully with the pigmentation of his wings. And maybe he smuggles a sterling-silver bracelet with a few tiny gems, that just so happen to be pearl and sapphire, into Raven’s preciously few adornments.

Because he saw them and simply knew that these ornaments were made for the two of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Bela](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Bela_Nightshade/pseuds/Bela_Nightshade) had so many questions about this chapter so if you do, please just give me a run-down of 'em and I'll answer :) 
> 
> Also, for those who are curious about the _galb_ you could compare it to a Christian wearing a Cross around their neck; it's not _quite_ that because the Rom culture is so beautifully complex and there can be a lot of things attached to a 'galb' aside from faith, but a simple description would be 'the golden necklace around the neck of many Rom men' ( << like, that's a legit description I found online) - if you know of more layers to it, I'd be happy to hear about them :)


	7. Rituals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _And I did cartwheels in your honour/ Dancing on tiptoes/ My own secret ceremonials_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to Bela Nightshade :)

+++

 

Dick is used to spreading his wings at every occasion he has; he has no reason to hide them, given that – even when decorated – they are practically ‘standard issue’ and people with dark wings run around in loads on the streets.

Damian, however, has a cover that is difficult to maintain in broad daylight; even in the night-time, his mechanical aviators are a world-wide-phenomenon after all and would, no doubt, be recognized at the first glint of titanium-alloy. While he’s not certain if Raven does have wings on this side of her Self, he doesn’t think that she’d object to a night off and out.

So when the idea first settles in his mind, he doesn’t govern it at all, doesn’t censor it because it’s a valid option and a thing that he _knows_ needs to be addressed at some point in the future. Mostly it’s because he knows how Damian’s wings work, and if he does not use them, they do act up.

It’s November now; the nights are getting colder but so are they getting longer – darker even - which is when the phrase ‘the dead of the night’ hits him hard and his idea comes into true fruition.

Wally West has so many open debts with him it’s almost not funny anymore, except they come in real handy right about now, because Dick is going to cash them in – all of them – and he won’t stop at his best friend either. There’s a lot of saving-up he’s been doing in the years before Spyral after all.

But Wally is his first go-to-person. Because Wally.

“A day off.”—his friend’s slightly distorted voice repeats drily over the old speakers, tries to understand. Dick can’t really explain in detail, not yet, because he doesn’t want to compromise Raven by announcing her whereabouts – the League is still wary about her for some reason – and he doesn’t feel like letting Damian’s old team know where he is. Not, admittedly, that Wally would _titter_ if Dick were to let him know that this was not to be voiced anywhere outside of their discretion. But Wally tends to ask all the right questions and Dick isn’t certain how prepared he is to answer them. Or even consider them.

So instead, he nods, eyes narrowing slightly behind the glasses. Wally knows that this is as ‘naked’ as he dares to go on video-chats where others can oversee or even knowingly hack into the stream if they were talking villains. The speedster himself is still in his cowl – his own, not Barry’s like the League had demanded of him – tapping his chin with his forefinger.

“This wouldn’t have anything to do with—“

“KF.”—Dick warns him carefully, interrupts the question that is sure to be the first of a deluge of them, the first to break all of Dick’s carefully constructed walls around the true reason why he wants the night off. He can’t have his old friend breaking them just yet.

Wally groans a little, his hands cramping in on themselves as he lifts them shoulder high in a mixture of supplication and despair; Dick knows him too well by now to not be able to read him like this.

“Alright, alright, alright.”—Wally yields. “One night of covering for your sorry butt coming right up.”

Dick is supremely thankful that the needling doesn’t take up after that admission, even when his friend gives him an open face full of smugness and intent. It’s enough to let him know that, even though he’s off the hook for now, this stalemate won’t remain forever. If he wants to keep Wally in the dark, he’ll need to up his game somewhat quicker than anticipated.

Because Wally.

He’s so much cleverer than most people give him credit for – it’s totally _larious_.

…You know: when he’s not the focus of said IQ.

 

-

 

Which, of course, bites him in the ass several months later, in spring, because naturally Wally has picked up on the _timing_ , his _destination_ and, try as he did to hide it, his _companions_ – as previously stated, he is too smart not to. Maybe it’s his mother’s _Owl_ in him but it could just be human-born-natural-curiosity; who’s he to know really. Even though Dick has taken all sorts of precautions, even though he has made certain that no CCTV camera was able to pick up on their faces, for some reason it has not been enough.

“When were you going to tell me that you’ve chosen a mate, Big Bird?”—the younger man asks him one evening when Dick gives him a last heads up via quick video chat as to what has been going on around Blüdhaven.

Dick chokes on air for about a moment, before he collects his bearings. Wally’s grin widens; the bastard knows he’s a little too close for comfort.

“Or, well, mates as it might be the case.”—he clarifies. “Because really—“

“ _Mates?_ ”—Uh… “What?”

Wally’s grin morphs into an indecent smirk as he leans just a little closer to the camera in his laptop. Dick wonders if he’s about to be lectured – it sure looks like it. “ _Come on_ , Big Bird, seriously? You’ve been taking them out for the whole _dancing-thing_ for months now. Don’t tell me…”—his friend looks chagrined at the thought that has, obviously, just now crossed his mind. Wally looks guilty. “Don’t… don’t tell me this is a _Barbara_ kind of thing, because, _dude_ , I am not stocked up on Rocky Road right now…”

Dick resents the fact that Wally would so carelessly throw the Barbara situation into his face… or his weakness for _Rocky Road_. But even though his feathers ruffle slightly at the rebuttal, he shakes his head at Wally over the screen.

“No, man, just… no. They’re not… I didn’t… it’s not a _dancing-thing_.”—he finally comes up with.

They don’t necessarily see each other once they have arrived at his safe house outside Upstate NY – it is the only rule he has decreed in concern to these outings. There is no obligation to stay side by side; they are supposed to _relax_ , in whatever way they manage to.

And so, while they are always prepared for any occurrence, with their comm. links never far off, they usually split up on the large grounds. There are no lights from the city, no light from the moon, and most of the park has been left… unattended.

Because while Tim has bought up Drake-companies with his it’s-your-eighteenth-birthday-money that Bruce, for some reason, has gifted to every single one of them, and while Jason has donated the most part to orphanages and education-programmes around the world, Dick had invested part of his into acquiring the left overs of the Natural Dino Reserve NY – a failed project of reanimating fossils. With the animals gone, all that remains is a beautifully jungle-like park complete with overgrown huts that had once been meant to be restaurants or live-ins for the keepers.

He does sometimes fly with Damian or walk the grounds with Raven when they feel up to it, when something about the last mission is still lingering. By some silent agreement Dick has become head of most of the ops, but in general it is the night of the New Moon when the three of them separate on the Gray Grounds (Jason’s idea) and do their own thing for just a little.

“I just…”—his wings raise with the shrug of his shoulders, indecisive and a little unsure. “Blackbird can’t stretch his wings in the city. Everyone and their mother would know the next day. And Rae… Rae can always benefit from peace and quiet. So… just… we don’t really… it’s not a… dancing-thing.”—he repeats.

Wally’s face falls a little at that admission and if his friend had wings, there’s a possibility they would be drooping alongside his eyes, but he is one of the few _grounded_ folk on the planet – though Barry had been clever enough to hide this fact by procuring a functioning set of prosthetics for him in order to protect his civilian identity.

Dick is one of the very few to know.

For a few moments both ends of the conversation are quiet, Wally scratching the back of his neck sheepishly, Dick fighting his brain’s desire to run wild with the implication and new food it’s been given. To think about the possibilities that could… _No._ _ **Not**_ _thinking about it…_

When they arrive at the park in the late afternoon however, he cannot help but wonder if it would change anything… if _they_ would change if he were to try and… His heart is strangely aflutter when they go their own ways that night. He thinks maybe swooping around a bit might just clear his mind of the bronze shine of Damian’s skin that is darkened by the veil of the night and the brightness of Raven’s that seems to contradict both of their hues and almost illuminates as if to spite the darkness.

He needs to do loop-de-loops until he cannot think straight anymore.

 

***

 

She doesn’t know why Richard has difficulties with it.

Damian she understands: he’s a bird of rationale and logic and the fact that he deals differently with the mere notion of para-normativity is not a surprise to her. But Richard… hasn’t he grown up with this? She knows that there have been meta-human members in his original _Flock_ , birds of illusion and trickery and, beyond that, _magic_. Not to mention that he has always been in close contact with the League and she has had several run-ins with Zatanna – in near to every reality to be exact.

They are, curiously enough, not uneasy with her despite this.

Dick brushes his wing-tips against her whenever he deems it safe to do so, and even Damian has come to let his walls down around her bit by bit over the prior months. He shows her his back more often and Raven knows that he really does think highly of her, when he manages to do so without standing in front of a reflecting object.

But the magic – the _manipulation of matter_ as Damian describes it – is a mystery to them that they cannot wholly comprehend, and therefore it acts as a separating agent between them.

Which is why Raven makes time to sit down with Richard and his cereal some mornings when his plumage is still sticking at odd ends from his sleep – especially on the days after bad nights, recognizable by the feathers sticking even in his sleep-mussed hair – and shows him several smaller tricks that she has up her sleeve.

“You don’t have to entertain me, you know?”—he tells her one of those days when, even after hours of her building a 3-D-puzzle-Big-Ben, he cannot seem to get out of his head. Raven shakes her head a little when he says this.

“It’s not entertainment, Richard.”—she tells him quietly over the sizzling of Damian’s Frittata in the next room. “I need exercise. I need control. What better way than to do that with a mind-numbing, aggravating 3-D-puzzle at the very start of the day?”

She wants to say ‘asscrack of dawn’ because, really, that is when Richard has been woken by the demons in his head. Sometimes she gets flashes, but those instances are reserved for the truly bad nightmares. It may be an untruth, but he is not correcting her.

“This one needs to go to the far right corner.”—he says instead, holding up a squiggly piece she has not yet considered, because the shape alone was a bit too alien for her to really comprehend without at least one coffee in her system, but she heeds his advice and it fits.

Damian is a little more difficult, because he would smell her plan from a mile away – which is why she doesn’t make one. Being the strategic genius that he is, it has already been a real hassle for Dick and her to come up with something that would distract him from the cake-delivery à la Wayne-Flock-caretaker (she has not been cleared for any further information, but she does not mind too much) for his birthday – and that was supposed to be _easy_.

So instead of sitting down with him after bad nights – and _Azar_ knows the youngest member of their team has enough of those – and making a slight spectacle of herself, she goes about it in a slightly more inconspicuous, albeit not any less flashy, way.

During trainings she will let loose on that little bit of demonic entity within her, feel the shadow of antlers brush her hair, lock with his proverbial horns; she will levitate herself and all hell if she gets the chance and a part of her will _enjoy_ it.

Damian is smirking when she has him in a lock-hold, hands glowing sombrely with her powers enhancing the position and making certain he cannot escape. It’s a situation Damian Wayne doesn’t find himself in often; Raven has to admit that without her powers and her many travels she would not have been able to get the drop on him. Even so she manages only rarely. As he taps out against the side of her knee he gives her a throw-away-grin that, despite their lack of blood-relation, all Robins have somehow acquired over time as if it was a badge of honour.

_She’s known them for so long now…_

“You certainly do like to show off when you have the room, Roth.”—he comments, stretching his neck this and that way in a fashion that Richard must have shown him to prevent upsetting this part of his body.

Raven cocks her eyebrow, straightening from her position and folding her hands into her hips. “If you had the abilities, you’d want to train them as well, _Wayne._ ”

But something about his wording sticks with her, prods at her until she picks the thought up during one of her evening meditations to inspect like she would the star-puzzle that the younger man has gotten her. Something about the way he phrased it _rankled_ and she doesn’t quite know why; it’s not impairing her capacities _yet_ but she’s had a lifetime – several, to be very honest – of experience with letting her emotions sit and fester.

There’s not a single instance to her knowledge in which this scenario played out beneficially.

The meditation takes her longer than anticipated, longer than usual, because what she discovers unlocks a whole new view on… everything, and she needs the time to come to terms with it.

Late in the night her legs unwind from her Lotus position to land back on the floor she’d levitated from; both men are sitting on the couch facing her way when she turns to observe the dimly illuminated living room behind her. Richard – _Dick_ – is a worried mess of distorted feathers and heavy eyelids that he appears to be keeping open out of concerned stubbornness, clinging to Damian as well as a well-loved plushie of which – for a change – she doesn’t know the history, while Damian himself is quietly polishing his flawless katana. She has learned to identify both behaviours as stress indicators and gently mellows the edges around her.

Her emotions tend to influence those in her near vicinity – even when she is not consciously manipulating _sins_ – and she doesn’t dare dream that the unsettling discovery she’s made in a dark, neglected part of her hasn’t had a consequence as to the output of her Aura… or the feeling of the room.

She’s been known for dropping the temperature of her surroundings in nearly all realities she’s been to after all.

And even if it’s December, as of now, Richard and Damian are both fond of higher than necessary temperatures and a chill would be noticeable, plus Richard knows how to read her distress and Damian is surprisingly willing to follow the intuition of the older one when the situation calls for interpersonal intelligence.

Raven seats herself on the couch, close to the two of them, Richard to her side, Damian on the other side of _Dick_ , still polishing his katana, though he seems to come to an end when – or maybe because – Richard rustles around a bit on the nest-like couch. He stretches and rearranges himself so his shins press gently against the side of Raven’s thighs as one of his shoulders brushes the side of Damian’s thigh. She notices this and wonders if he’s noticed that her ‘showing off’ and ‘entertaining’ could – technically – be interpreted as _preening_.

 

***

 

Despite the fact that, logically, he is closer to Grayson, he catches himself enjoying the particular habit with Roth first. He hasn’t premeditated the action itself, which is rare for him, so when he catches himself reflecting on it much later at the end of the day and finds himself smiling… he picks the memory up to inspect it, because until now the little bugger had managed to remain undetected.

He surprises himself, he realizes, when upon retrospection it turns out that he has been behaving in this very manner for several weeks now – months, if he is concise and honest – and it has not once come to his attention. Not only was the act very much instinctual, but while it had commenced with Roth, it most certainly had by then spread out to encompass Grayson.

Thankfully there is a starting point to be found when he digs deeper.

In their profession, it just so happens that an individual is brought to the very brink of their sanity, of their capability and of their very self. The ultimate goal of every villain, after all, is to break a hero, preferably their nemesis. As a result they find themselves pushed to their limits every other day – the good ones, the survivors, adapt and grow; others bend and break until there is nothing left of them.

This is no secret.

Everyone and their mother has seen it happen and has had it happen to them at least once in their life.

And yet, even those that survive, those that adapt, those that grow strong, meet their match every once in a while; they are thrown into the abyss where there is nothing to look at except for their own reflection. Walking – limping – away from such occurrences leaves scars on the body and on the mind. While he might once have scoffed at the supposed weakness of those that wake in the night, shook to the core by what their mind’s eye has conjured, he has learned since then.

… _since Grayson first found his way into his bed, shivering and near-to crying._

He does not want to possess a mind that will not tremble at the atrocities people can commit – he has learned that this proves _heart_ , and that is what ultimately can and will get you through even the most desolate situations.

So when Roth wakes one morning, shaken by whatever has been haunting her, he too finds himself awake.

Mother had told him that the sensation of _magic_ – of the unnatural – would forever be detectable to him when she’d pulled him from _The Pit_ _,_ and he has noticed this when Roth first came to them. He’d known she was magic when he’d first laid eyes on her. It is a sweet buzzing at the base of his spine, intensifying during spars, when those deadly hands encounter his. He is not ignorant; he knows that the woman Raven holds power that could break reality. He’s seen her send a man back in time without so much as breaking into a sweat.

Something must have spooked her horrendously, for when she walks past his room and towards what he presumes is the gym, the frisson down his back feels like a shower of petrol-burning-ice-cubes and when he exits his room, he is not quiet about it – better to have her knowing he was coming than to be at the receiving end of her unadulterated power. He does not follow her though; he knows that whatever it is, Roth has her own way of dealing with her demons.

He makes coffee.

And waits.

The slow chant of Roth’s voice fills the air around him, quiet enough to let him know that she is indeed calming down. The prickle at the base of his spine slowly recedes, loud enough to let him know that she needs the materiality of the words right now to believe them, to have them _work_.

When she joins him in the kitchen an hour later, she looks and feels more settled. He is on his third cup, clothed back against the rising sun, feet bare, and a tattered copy of _Tennyson Selected_ in his hands. It is one of his most treasured possessions, the first gift he had ever been given that had a) nothing to do with warfare and had b) come from the Wayne-Flock – or rather, the Pennyworth-Flock, given that it had been a present from Alfred.

He knows the poems by heart now, has learned them when he couldn’t find it in himself to sleep, has recited them to Alfred out of loyalty and something akin to amusement; the older Falcon had enjoyed it, if anything.

She doesn’t talk, but gives him a quiet look, the black of her shorts contrasting harshly with the paleness of her legs in the sun and he doesn’t quite know why but- “Have you ever had Cardamom with your Turkish?”

It is one of the things that had brought peace to his mother when she had had an unpleasant encounter, and it is therefore one of the things that he could possibly do with his eyes closed. The woman Raven gives him a look that tells him she is not really seeing him. Rather than dithering, he sits very still for about the blink of a moment before he slides out of his stool. She sets her utensils down and steps away from the working space, giving him room to take over.

He does so without missing a beat.

Measures the water.

Three spoons of Selamlique.

He reaches for the ingredients when she moves in his chair, picks up the book. “Tennyson?”—she asks with a quiet, wondering breath, fingers caressing the pages in a soothing manner, as if she could tell the age of the copy. She looks like she knows the book, as if she’s related to it, cradles it carefully in the palms of her slim hands.

“ _Half a league, half a league/ Half a league onward/ All in the valley of Death/ Rode the six hundred_.”—her dry voice is curiously suited, he thinks as he grinds the Cardamom into powder.

“ _"Forward, the Light Brigade!_ ””—he takes over unthinkingly, as he watches the condiment in the bowl carefully – still meshing. “ _"Charge for the guns!" he said/ Into the valley of Death/ Rode the six hundred._ ”  
  
He measures the cinnamon and the cardamom into the copper cup, where the Selamlique is already happily swimming atop the water.

“ _"Forward, the Light Brigade!"_ / _Was there a man dismay'd?_ / _Not tho' the soldier knew_ / _Someone had blunder'd_ ”—as an afterthought he adds two spoons of brown sugar; the refined stuff didn’t blend with the Turkish, but the brown for some reason did splendidly in a cup.

“ _Theirs not to make reply,_ / _Theirs not to reason why,_ / _Theirs but to do and die_ / _Into the valley of Death_ / _Rode the six hundred._ ”—Damian recites as he stirs the concoction with delicate fingers and an equally careful, if precise, twist of his wrist. His mother had abhorred imperfection, and once he’d asked to be taught, she had seen to it personally that there would not be a single motion out of line.

The coffee-concoction is slowly but surely dissolving into the water, the surface of the liquid in the copper can turning into a smooth, brown mirror. He puts the can down on the gas, grabbing the lighter without looking – or pausing his recitation. “ _Cannon to right of them,_ / _Cannon to left of them,_ / _Cannon in front of them_ / _Volley'd and thunder'd;_ ”—the flame springs to life under his ministrations, licking at the bottom of the cylindrical container.

“ _Storm'd at with shot and shell,_ / _Boldly they rode and well,_ / _Into the jaws of Death,_ / _Into the mouth of Hell_ / _Rode the six hundred._ ”

The coffee needs time to boil, so he grabs for the woman Raven’s cup, not needing to stretch to reach the cupboard like she does.

“ _Flash'd all their sabres bare,_ / _Flash'd as they turn'd in air,_ / _Sabring the gunners there,_ / _Charging an army, while_ / _All the world wonder'd_ ”—Damian puts the black cup down on the work surface right next to the hearth-oven combination and gives the woman a sideways glance as he continues.

“ _Plunged in the battery-smoke_ / _Right thro' the line they broke;_ / _Cossack and Russian_ / _Reel'd from the sabre stroke_ / _Shatter'd and sunder'd._ / _Then they rode back, but not_ / _Not the six hundred._ ”—the first boil is making itself noticeable at the edges of the copper can, small bubbles that amount to foam rising at the sides. Damian takes it off the stove, lets it sit to the right next to the cup, but doesn’t kill the flame.

“ _Cannon to right of them,_ / _Cannon to left of them,_ / _Cannon behind them_ / _Volley'd and thunder'd;_ ”—he puts the can back on, watches as the foam rises on its walls a second time, quicker than before; he takes it back off the flame, lets it rest again.

“ _Storm'd at with shot and shell,_ / _While horse and hero fell,_ / _They that had fought so well_ / _Came thro' the jaws of Death_ / _Back from the mouth of Hell,_ / _All that was left of them,_ / _Left of six hundred._ ”—he’s played the game a third time and he pours the coffee carefully, watching for the ground-sludge that exits through the round beak first as well it should be.

The woman Raven gives him a small smile when he presents her with her coffee. “ _When can their glory fade?_ / _O the wild charge they made!_ / _All the world wondered._ / _Honour the charge they made,_ / _Honour the Light Brigade,_ / _Noble six hundred._ ”

She lifts her cup in salutation as he ends, pushing the book back towards his now idle hands. “You’ve had a very good teacher.”—she compliments him as she takes a sip; the cock of her head lets him know that she does not only talk about the poem.

As stated, this becomes a habit before he can properly think about what the action might imply. Whenever the woman Raven finds herself at odds with a situation or herself – she tends to project horrendous sentiments in the case of the latter – Damian can and will be found in the kitchen, reading a copy of more or lesser known poetry, waiting until the woman Raven would dare set foot into his direction. Unfailingly she always would. And, in a constant equal to hers, he would always make her coffee while reciting a poem.

His reflection on the behaviour doesn’t start until Alfred starts to deliver his possessions to Blüdhaven, bit by bit – starting with the one instrument he has that is portable: his grandmother’s Stradivarius Violin. It is probably one of the most valuable objects that he possesses; he’s very glad to have been trained by multiple villains as well as vigilantes or he would be nervous about the presence of the instrument in the former factory.

 _Lamoureux_ rings gently in his ears when he tests the strings and he could kiss Alfred if the old Falcon were still here and not already back _en route_ to Gotham. It seems that the caretaker has more than made good on his promise to have an eye on Damian’s possessions.

When his fingers smooth themselves into the opening sequence of Sibelius’ Violin Concerto 47 – he’s always had a fondness for the Romantics glories found beyond the Iron Curtain.

His fingers fly without his command, his mind recalling the score with perfect clarity – he doesn’t know how long he sits there, fingers flying, bow bending, _Lamoureux_ singing in perfect harmony with his heart.

Only when he reopens his eyes does he notice Grayson’s wingtips close to his knees, not touching, but only barely. The man in question is stretched on his back, wings arched high in contrast to the laxness of his arms, hands folded just underneath his navel, ankles crossed. He is perfectly relaxed. Damian doesn’t think he’s ever seen him quite like this and doesn’t govern his actions when he raises both his arms, to finish the piece.

Half an hour later, Grayson’s wingtips are gently brushing the caps of his knees, though the man has not moved from his original position. Damian is not certain if his partner is asleep, though he can tell that the man is, at the very least, in a state of deep rest. He does not wish to disturb him, so he lifts the Stradivarius back to his chin and eases his fingers into Dvořák’s Sonata op. 57.

Grayson lies on the carpeted floor and soaks it up.

He doesn’t know why the man has come to seek him out, but it happens then – and it happens again; when Grayson cannot sleep, when Damian can see him hunting down the _what-ifs_ and the _could-have-should-haves_.

It’s when Grayson’s darkest day comes and Damian is already reaching for _Lamoureux_ even though he hasn’t even had his coffee yet, that the alarm-bells in his head ring louder than Tchaikovsky’s cannons in 1812. He hasn’t, until now, even considered his actions to be… of a consoling nature, rather than instinct.

And what is worse is that he cannot sit down to inspect the sentiment then and there because Grayson _needs_ this right now – Damian doesn’t even question it.

By the end of the day his fingers are raw; at the very least, however, Grayson has not spilt a single tear from what he can tell.

It is then, and only then, that he sits down in the dark of the night to turn the matter around in his head like he would a Rubik’s-Cube – twisting and trying until a new part slots into place and the picture gets clearer. The sun is rising again when he comes to the conclusion that a) he will not stop even though b) one could construe his behaviour as _serenadin_ _g_ of all things.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tiny explanation for the jump in time between Dick and Raven - Dick's story starts out in November, and that's when, in general, the whole chapter sets off, his small jump to spring is more like a sneak-preview than a fast forwarding in the time-line, which is why when Raven talks about December, she really means the month following up on the November in Dick's recount. I tried weaving it into the story 'cleverly' but it's obvious that it was a little confusing - so; chapter imperfect, but here's the explanation ;-) Hope we're all cleared up


	8. Interlude I - Dick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Like all good fruit, the balance of life is in the ripe and ruin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you [Bela Nightshade](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Bela_Nightshade/pseuds/Bela_Nightshade), as always :) 
> 
> Smol one this time

 

+++

 

Technically Damian is the youngest amongst them. Raven, though she was maybe born a few years after Dick, would be right in the middle age-wise. She does not contest this when he sometimes calls Damian ‘Egg’ around her, but he also does not think he imagines the wry smirk when Damian tears into him every time Dick slips up in his presence.

Even though Damian might be the youngest, he is taller even than Dick. He would not say of himself that he is a small man, but he does not have Bruce’s genes or the build of a _Raven_ , so Damian is just that half of a head taller than Dick, which is weird, considering.

 

-

 

Raven is the smallest – she doesn’t really mind. She knows of herself well enough; with the New Moons, when she can truly spread her wings in the safety of darkness and solitude, she doesn’t doubt that her wingspan is the greatest.

And even though she might not be proud of it, she _can_ carry three adults with her if she so wants to.

Neither of the men need to know.   
Yet.

_Maybe one day.  
_ _Maybe not._

 

-

 

“’s not fair.”—Dick complains to them one evening. He’s drugged beyond comprehension from a run-in with Poison Ivy that has Damian furious with Father’s handling techniques; it’s bad enough to have the botanist run amok in Gotham, but to have her beyond the borders of The Bat’s Territory is veritable chaos and unpardonable.

He will need to have words.

“What is?”—the woman Raven indulges the lank man around their shoulders; his wings flap uselessly behind them, enfolding them on occasions and then spreading over their heads in a show of unnecessary protection. He wonders what is going on in the other man’s mind for his wings to act up like this, but some thoughts remain private even when drugged apparently.

“--being middle”—he slurs as they lower him gently to the couch.

“I do not follow, Grayson.”—Damian ventures to distract him. Raven unhooks the gloves they’d bestowed unto her when it became clear that she was unnecessarily hurting her palms during their patrols and rubs her hands against each other in a familiar gesture. Damian knows what’s coming, can feel it in his spine.

“You’re sooooo tall.”—Dick whines, one arm spreading in exaggeration, wing following and nearly dislodging the woman Raven from where she is seated behind him; Damian wonders about the small spark of amusement in her eyes when she resettles and touches her hand to Dick’s neck. “’nd Raven’s sooooo purdy.”

The woman snorts, magic seeping into Dick’s system at a sedate pace; he can see the fog lifting from his partner’s eyes before his lids droop. “Don’t worry your head, Big Wing.”—she soothes quietly as Dick’s eyes close. “You got the nicest, fluffiest set of wings out of the three of us.”

The wing that had almost dislodged her before fluffs half-heartedly, like a flexing biceps, and Damian doesn’t hesitate to gently reach out and stroke his finger-tips over the black richness that is Richard’s plumage. The quickly fading man gives a contented sigh, rolling onto his stomach to spread said wings over the both of them.

Up close Damian has to concede that, yes, they are most definitely the prettiest of the three of them.


	9. Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I was following the pack, all swallowed in their coats/ With scarves of red tied 'round their throats/ To keep their little heads from falling in the snow, and I turned 'round and there you go_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Readers, words actually fail to convey how happy I am that this story seems to have such an avid reader-ship, despite it being very 'out there' - Thank you all for showering me in Kudos and especially Appu123y for the encouraging comments that keep coming. 
> 
> Major thanks to [Bela Nightshade](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Bela_Nightshade/pseuds/Bela_Nightshade) as well because you talk Meta to me and you encourage me personally and you work so very dilligently on all of this with me and it's a huge pleasure and time-saver. 
> 
> Thank you all,  
> I just needed this said :)

+++

 

They mesh in a beautiful hodgepodge kind of way that she can barely even appreciate before it is unwittingly torn from her.

Raven knows she needs to let them go for the end of the year both for Christmas – even though Damian is still _unfamiliar_ with the tradition, seeing as the al Ghul family has, apparently, been Muslim for generations in this reality – and for New Year’s.

It’s not that she begrudges them the family time, but when they leave on the 20th she can positively attest to the fact that mere walls have never felt this hollowly oppressing.

The first day is the worst. She continues to wait for the gentle brush of Richard’s feathers over her shoulders in the morning when she automatically prepares a whole drip full of Colombian Roast. It is cold by the time that she realizes her fault and the cavity of her chest empties so quickly that she feels like cotton for a short moment, before she regains her breath and empties the pot down the drain.

The second day finds her deeply immersed in Emmerson’s works. She is comfortable in the nest, book cradled carefully towards her, tea and a small platter of Damian’s vegetarian cookies stashed at her side and behest, where she can easily reach it. Maybe it’s not all that bad.

At least until she wakes up some time in the afternoon, book lost in the blankets she has ensconced herself in, cookies and tea forgotten or cold, her face pressed into an orange-white-face of fuzz, instinctually looking for a scent that has left with its owner while also pushing her back against black silk that feels like heaven.

This has to stop.

As immediately as possible.

The third day is heralded by a beautiful night, cold and so ingeniously starry that Raven doesn’t even need a telescope to find Orion rising at the far end of the night-sky. She decides to take a page out of the _Big Hunter’s_ book and prepares for a small excursion.

With both Damian and Richard gone, their oldest had made certain that Blüdhaven would be watched, and so when she makes certain that the metallic blinds are down and all security protocols are in place, she should not feel even vaguely guilty about leaving. As she steps through the _Portals of Zinthos_ , however, she cannot help the last glance over her shoulder, eyes finding the indications of both Damian and Richard having been here.

She travels far in every sense of the word and when she finds herself in a distant reality – seriously, what are they making her _wear_? – she settles down for observation with a few of Damian’s vegetarian cookies. She’s very keen to find out what this place has in store.

When she returns on the 1st of January, she is rather glad that neither Damian nor Richard are present yet – she imagines that with the new amount of information she has accrued it might take some time until she will be able to look into the eyes of Ibn al… _Damian_ , or even Richard without her mind conjuring the image of-

Raven shakes her head, stopping her train of thought.

Not thinking about it… just yet.

_Maybe, one day, she could get mileage out of this…_

 

-

 

The snow settles in unexpectedly late, or early given that it’s January when it does, surprising not only the small municipal department for Snow Removal finding themselves ill-prepared for the cold-weather-front, but also Blüdhaven’s Finest. Although Dick is relatively glad that the task-force he is planning on joining – not that he’s talked this through with his partners yet – is a little slower and gives them more room to operate, it makes for challenging situations.

The rooftops are slippery even with the Winter Gear – courtesy of Tim who is, honestly, the very best _brother-from-another-mother_ one could possibly have – and the icicles impeach the grapples of his _Blackbird_. It annoys the ever living fuck out of them.

On the upside however, the weather is not only a deterrent for _justice_ , but also those on the wrong side of the tracks. 

Which means a few more nights in.

And they need them, because Raven has been more compromised than either of the men, given that they had not been able to divulge enough information to Tim in order for him to create something suitable for the temperatures that would fit Raven. Even though Damian and Dick both cobbled together something that they deemed durable enough and Raven is, due to her genetics, usually more resilient, a recent run-in with Atomic Skull, complete with Radioactive Sludge, jeopardized her generally stable immune system.

Thus, even with her Winter Gear and powerhouse-genes, Raven has caught a bad case of the flu. Pretty soon it turns out to be a dangerous thing, because her control slips more easily and that means bad news.

Raven fights fiercely; she puts up no protests when Dick plies her with _Broth of Life_ – chicken soup the way his _Puridaia_ made it – but even then every sneeze catapults another book across the room, every fevered twitch of her hands causes the circuitry to act up and when she loses consciousness on her fifth day, Dick doesn’t even hesitate to act on instinct.

He locks them down just as Blüdhaven is caught in a blizzard the likes of which it hasn’t seen in a long while – and, incidentally, won’t see again for another twenty years. Dick trusts that it will stop the villains just as short as it does them.

“We’ve done this countless times with Tim and Jason.”—he berates Damian when his former Robin looks like he is about to object to the plan that Dick is already underway in acting on. “And you know that there is a sound theory behind all of it. Do yourself the favour and help me – because I doubt you’ll want to go running from the monsters that her mind conjures and her magic makes real.”

Damian’s eyes go round for about the split of a second. “That is in her capability?”

Dick knows he’s won when the younger man steps over the threshold and into the slightly warmer room. They ventilated it about half an hour ago, but fresh air heats up quicker than its stale counterpart so it’s not too surprising that it feels just a little more tropical in Raven’s room than in the rest of the condo. The door closes behind him with a gentle _snick_.

Dick is already wrapping the woman he’s known since they were teenagers into a thin blanket that usually serves just fine as cover. He might want to get into her bed, but he’s nothing if not courteous and the goal of this undertaking is to make her comfortable.

Damian comes closer still, hesitantly, metal wings dithering in a show of uncertainty. They are both relatively certain that Raven is so out of it nothing would seem like a trustworthy version of reality. Her favourite throw is under his arm; he is planning to put it over the three of them, once they are positioned to ensure a maximum possibility of Raven’s recovery.

“The Titans had a horror-marathon once and she wouldn’t admit that she was scared, which caused her powers to promptly call her out on that lie. We didn’t get any shut eye that night, and since then I have not been to a Haunted House that has actually done anything to make my adrenaline spike.”

His partner stops arguing, closes the last remaining distance between them, and drapes himself artfully at Raven’s side, cover thrown out the moment that Dick himself is positioned at the other side of the woman. He wants to pull her frame closer but knows that it is a bad idea to do so without her consent, even in those moments when she is lucid, so he refrains, somewhat content in the knowledge that their elevated heat output will bring Raven’s fever right back down.

“Goodnight, Damian.”

“Goodnight, Grayson.”

When Raven wakes up the next day, she has enough strength to panic a little, at least until she realizes that she’s bundled up perfectly safe and nobody saw anything that they weren’t supposed to see.

They are back to normal a week later, gliding through the streets of Blüdhaven after continuously making certain that every one of them is in winter-appropriate gear – with the difference that both Damian and Raven are now more prone to initiate embraces than they had been before, cautious as they might be. Dick just soaks it up and relishes in the touches that every time become a little more casual.

 

-

 

Until they end up ‘winding down’ jumbled together on the couch after their missions, that is.

It’s February 14th when Damian realizes just how close the three of them have gotten. Far closer – he muses – than a normal team would be with each other, though their casualness with the others still manages to fly under that particular radar.

He has an arm around Raven’s shoulders, who is either close to passing out or in a state of meditation, with Dick’s warm presence draped over both their laps. They’ve returned early from their patrol: Blüdhaven quiet for once, discounting the five jewellery thefts they’d stopped, and Dick had promptly pulled them out of their uniforms and towards the couch where he’d plied them with chocolates and switched on the TV for some mind-numbing movie.

It’s comfortable and it’s close… and when Raven lets out a soft sigh and curls further into his side – definitely sleeping then – he cannot help but flex his arm around her, manoeuvre her into a position that is less likely to be hell on her neck, and lower his eyes against the shimmering of the screen.

“You falling asleep, Babybat?”—Grayson rumbles smoothly somewhere to his right. He can feel the man turn on his thighs and as Damian opens his eyes just the slightest, he sees the blue orbs glittering up at him from Raven’s lap.

“Shut up.”—he mumbles.

But he follows Raven into slumber.


	10. Omissions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It’s just a minor thing, and I’m a minor king_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, lots of thanks to [Bela Nightshade](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Bela_Nightshade/pseuds/Bela_Nightshade) because you're a magnificent human being. 
> 
> And thank you all for sticking with this story :3 It makes me happy to see all those Kudos :D

+++

 

He has not had complications with Father ever since his decision to leave Gotham City to put up camp in Blüdhaven while _Nightwing_ was MIA – Father has not seen to contact him outside of Trade-related issues and that has been fine with him.

The first time he has returned to Gotham since then has been for Christmas and New Year’s in order to appease Father’s interpretation of ‘Family Interaction’. He has left the Manor with a few more of his possessions than he had originally moved out with – back then only taking what he deemed absolutely necessary in his quest to protect Grayson’s territory – and maybe that is what has finally gotten under Father’s skin.

“ _Dick is back now, Damian. Maybe it’s time for you to return, too.”_

Damian has not been aware that Father would even want him back. Insubordination as he had shown it would have meant death in the al Ghul Court – not that Mother would not have been proud of him for going against Father’s wishes in such a spectacular way – though he has long been removed from the dry desert lands in which he had first stretched his wings.

Mother does not contact him unless it is related to a mission, and Damian barely knows Father outside of the awkward rituals that he would be forced through in an approximation of what The Bat considered to be ‘Family Time’.

If he is honest – and while he has been brought up to always be as dishonest as possible with his foes it has been Grandfather’s highest decree to never let him lie to oneself – he has not had a feeling of _belonging_ until Father’s supposed demise and Grayson’s return to Gotham in order to take care of a pre-teen and a city that did not know his name or face. But then again, Grayson had been taught human contact and the taking care of another being without having ulterior motives.

Thus, when Father had asked him to return to his territory, he had given it serious thought.

Grayson was well set up around here. He had Roth to take care of him if anything should happen, West in case Roth was incapacitated, and should worst come to worst, Damian would not hesitate to come a-flying. Even though most of his possessions were now in Blüdhaven, and even though he’d put a certain amount to thought and effort into the creation of their shared Nest – this all could be reversed. He had a place in Gotham, several actually, and even if he were not to stay with Father – unlikely, but entirely possible – it would appease the old Bat to have his biological hatchling around.

And because Damian is nothing if not thorough – Roth had had the gall to call it ‘paranoid’… once – he has made discreet inquires as to the current status of Batman. It turns out that a) Oracle is frighteningly capable when it comes to hacking into a system that should be off limits to her, b) there are things that, apparently, he has not been nor will he likely ever be ready to hear about his biological producer’s life, and c) Father is either cunning or stupid.

Because with the way he behaves, Damian cannot entirely tell.

If the action were premeditated, then he would have to hand it to Father, would have to let him know that the al Ghul Court was not any different in their reactions to insubordination (Damian does die a little when he hears the news after all).

If, however, it were not a conscious action, then Damian would not know how to let Father know that he was not, as it were, _okay_ with it – even though he knows that there is nothing in his power to stop it, so he doesn’t attempt it.

When he makes to avoid the topic for some time being, it turns out that this decision comes to haunt him in the very body of Father landing on one of the ‘havens rooftops with near-to no sound. Damian recognizes him by the cadence of his steps – had learned to do so when Grayson was forced out, when _she_ found her way into his life – so he doesn’t turn around when The Bat comes to a halt at his back.

Despite the fact that the feeling is fucking uncomfortable and he wants to scratch at a spot right between his wings.

“Robin.”

“ _Blackbird_.”—he corrects, and still doesn’t turn around. He has made up his mind – it might come to bite him at a later date, what with the decision having been made at a time of emotional upheaval but he is determined. “What is it that you need, Batman?”

He still does not turn around, eyes following Nightwing’s descent onto the 30th level, Raven covering his back. Damian is only here for Part Two of the current mission and as it is, he won’t have enough time to have this talk with his father if it takes on larger proportions than Damian should think necessary.

“I have come to hear your decision.”—the growl is familiar in his ears, like the sound of rubble under his feet when he would wander through the Mountains in order to clear his head or chew over a lesson. “Gotham needs you.”

This is going to take longer than expected – Damian had not premeditated a reaction to the ‘Gotham needs you’-card; he’s heard from Drake that it is in the array of possible moves for the man though he has not deemed himself ‘exemplary’ enough to warrant the usage.

Time is up. Damian turns, gives the Dark Knight a glare through his mask that he assumes is not translating properly – indifference would do just as fine, however. “She has not had prodigal sons for quite a while, Batman, she’ll need to do without this one for some time longer.”

He topples backwards and into the opening of the skyscrapers before he releases the grapple halfway down and, in a manoeuvre that screams of Grayson’s training, vaults himself up towards the 30th floor and through the open window in a daring combination of summersaults and body-screws.

_When Grayson had told him first that he’d teach him how to_ _**fly** _ _, Damian had laughed at him…_

Naturally this is not the last time that The Bat comes to parlay with the _Blackbird_ of Blüdhaven. The 30th of March sees the _Haven Gazette_ dedicating an entire gloss-paged section to the repeated sightings of the Dark Knight at the side of Blackbird.

It is this inane dribble that gets Grayson on his case.

“No wonder you’ve been so mopey recently.”—he comments over their first cup of coffee on the 1st of April; Damian has checked the sugar thrice and is still somewhat wary of the surrounding household appliances. The woman Raven has told him to stick it and that they were too busy to think of any pranks to pull on each other – he’s not completely certain of her trustworthiness, despite the sound reasoning.

“I am certain I have no idea what you mean, Grayson.”—he shoots back, eyes lowering to one of the photographs of Blackbird descending into Port Avenue, Batman’s cape billowed out behind him. It is of acceptable quality and, come to think of it, a rather passable ‘Family Photo’ all things considered.

He tries to divert his attention by thinking of what kind of frame would be fitting in order to send this over to Gotham – with love, of course – when Grayson lowers his cup and puts his paw of a hand over the one in Damian’s hand.

“Do you want to tell me what he’s been hounding you about?”

And—

_Yes_ , because Grayson is the kind of family that his biological gene-givers can, for some reason, not be – but then also—

_No_ , because Grayson… does not need to know. About any of this. At all.

He shakes his head, moves his cup away from the lid that Grayson’s hand provides and lifts it back to his lips, taking a sip of the scalding liquid. He wishes he would burn his tongue already, give him something else to think of.

“He has asked of me to return to Gotham. I have replied negative.”—this should sum it up; this should give Grayson all he needs … and no reason to go snooping into it. Thus, Damian puts it out of his mind.

Which does not mean that it is out of the world. Unfortunately.

This he learns a week later, when Bruce Wayne announces Drake – Drake-Wayne for about five years now – as the sole heir to Wayne Enterprises due to Damian’s… inhibitions. The blow is mellowed – barely – by Drake calling to ask just ‘what the actual fuck’ is going on (Todd is a bad influence on Drake’s grasp on linguistics); Damian has some semblance of an idea, of course, but is not yet ready to divulge this to his brother. He does smooth out the wrinkles in Drake’s psyche though – as well as he can either way – because their father has succeeded in mistreating this one as well.

_A feat that should have been impossible what with the way Drake clung to the cape in earlier days…_

Batman comes to visit that evening on patrol and Damian only hesitates for the beat of a heart before he lets his team know that right now he is not to be disturbed. He goes as far as to say ‘please’ which might bring down Hell and High Water onto him once they’ve retreated to the Nest, but for now will get him what he wants.

“Are you not done with me yet-“—he growls, “Batman?”

He refuses to let the man he thought was his father see just how much he truly does hurt, less so for the technical disinheriting rather than the second announcement the _Haven Gazette_ had been glad enough to report.

“I have come to clear the air.”

“Bit late for that, isn’t it?”—he sounds as bratty as he feels. The metal aviators flex against the containing straps in a show of wanting to ruffle. He finds that he wants the man to be afraid of him, if only a little – if only now.

“It has come to my attention that my actions might need explanation.”

Drake is probably making him (given their most recent phone-call) – more likely it is Todd though, what with the red-head’s inclination to not give a single flying shit as to the feelings of the source of his ire. The only other man he’d encountered to have braved The Pit tended to go all in, especially where The Bat was concerned.

“All has been said and done.”—Damian shrugs. “What more is there to explain? A man has a son whom he deems unfit to inherit diddly-squat; a man has another prospective and chooses it. End of story. I assume the son would want to gather his belongings and move out. Unless, of course, the rumours are true and he, indeed, does lack the mental capacity to be offended by the implications.”

The Bat moves somewhat uncomfortably, mouth twisting unhappily – there is, apparently, news yet to come that Damian might find himself ill-inclined of taking well. _Blackbird_ finds himself entertaining the notion that he cannot wait for this day to end.

“What if the Father did not mean for the son to see this as an act of cruel rationale, but rather a liberation of the son to do as he pleases…”—the soft words are at perverse odds with the rough voice they’re aired in. “What if there were still a need for… robinesque balance?”

Batman plays dirty in way Bruce Wayne never would.

Damian knows this.

The sum total of people who have fought at Batman’s side know this.

He has not ever thought that the words he needed to hear from a father would come from a vigilante in the middle of the night. And yet, the admission that _Batman_ needs a counter-balance, that _Bruce_ thinks _Damian_ would be that much needed balance— stings worse than Killer Bee’s venom.

“That is all you need me for isn’t it?”—Damian breaks the code, lifts his cowl and his mask, unafraid and angry, and rips the constraints of his wings apart as he spreads them high. He can see the reflections of the lower street lights dancing on the flat rooftop – it’s as beautiful as it is haunting.

Batman takes a step back in a long-forgotten reflex.

“You cannot even _look_ at me without horror marring your face and you want me under the same roof as yourself.”—he is _trying_ to keep his voice void of emotion but the bass-like scratch of _Raven_ still falls into his next words: “You cannot think of me as a _man_ , but you wish to take the one woman I have ever allowed myself to love and be loved by as your _wife_.”—there is shock, now, in the stance of the man opposite of him, who seems to shrink with every word that Damian yet says. “ _You_ , who taught me that such things were weaknesses and who made me ashamed of what I felt for her. _You_ , who could not teach me the merest modicum of physical affection any more than the rest of my Flock. _You_ want me to return and take on the role of an _inhibited_ , _grounded chicken_ and be _content_ with this?”

His wings smooth in deadly perfection, spread wide to his sides as he takes on the persona of _Ra’s Deathbringer_ – the very assassin that the world had trembled before – golden plumage sleek with honed rage. He wants to leave before he disinherits himself – and it’s a close thing – but that would be construed as ‘running away’ and Damian does not run away. Not from anything.

Instead, he sheathes his feathers. Gives The Bat a void stare and waits for him to talk.

When he does, it is Bruce Wayne speaking.

“You were—“

“Close.”—Damian supplies when the vigilante cannot seem to find words. “I imagine as close as the two of you are now; though I do hope that you treat her with leagues of more respect than I did, for my behaviour then was guided by the wrong motives and my goal was to make another happy instead of giving my all to her as she deserves.”

And, my, did she ever.

Still does.

“But this is not why I will not return.”—it’s just the thing that hurts the most. “There is a reason Robins fly the nest.”—he chooses the wording carefully, even as he re-applies his mask and the cowl. Maybe now the man sees how carefully his uniform had been chosen in a memorial to _her_. Damian had thought himself to be quite obvious; as had she as far as he remembers. “We had a Father that taught us to always seek higher ground.”

Batman does not return.

Damian’s mood does not necessarily improve, _but_ it is one stressor less.

 

-

 

“You’re okay with this?!”

Damian does _not_ have the patience to deal with this – nor has he had the proper amount of caffeine to even start dealing with this. He opts for silence; sips on his beverage.

“How could you possibly-?! Does she mean _nothing_ to you?!”

_That_ stings.

But even so Damian barely raises his blurry eyes to give Grayson a non-committal stare of the rim of his coffee-cup. His partner has stopped short and there is a face of horror flittering over his features that squeezes at Damian’s cardiovascular muscle worse than the thought of being indifferent to the announced union of Bruce Wayne and _her_.

Grayson has just discovered it in the _Haven Gazette_.

Damian has no idea how to communicate these physical responses to an emotional reaction.

Calmness settles over Grayson then and his shoulders slump into a defeated, self-deprecating lump; he knows how to read the man after having spent years under his tutelage. He has put this knowledge to good use during his tenure as _Nightwing_. Something is bothering Grayson, obviously, but he will not talk about it outright and Damian does not know how to ask. And so instead they do what they do best in situations that call for voicing emotions that neither of them knows how to even identify properly – something that they had both learned from the same man: shape it into something you can handle.

And anger is so very, very easy to handle for men who’ve encountered and honed it all their lives.

Grayson throws the _Gazette_ onto the kitchen table with an almost nonchalant gesture that is betrayed by the strain in his unoccupied hand.

“Should’ve known better.”—he says when he turns to leave the kitchen, wing-arcs jutting higher than usually. “Once an icicle, always incapable of feeling.”

It’s a deliberate jab at everything that he has fought to overcome and yet-

Damian doesn’t let himself react.

Continues to drink his coffee.

Stares at the picture of _them_ on the _Haven Gazette_ in front of him.

 

-

 

He doesn’t know how they come to the conclusion they must have reached three days into their heavily strained silence outside of missions. Just that—

“I’m still angry at you.”

“ _Tt_. Your embrace might send the wrong message then. Feel free to remove yourself from my person.”

“Shut up. I’m angry at you, but you’re still important to me. So I hug you because you’re in pain, but I’m still angry at you because you’re a pain in my very fine ass.”

“ _Roth_ -“

“Shut up. Feel the love or something.”

 

***

 

It’s not that he meant to keep it a secret, really. They just… were in the middle of something, and he didn’t find the right words to convey that he might have been compromised because both Raven as well as Damian had been _busy_. So he’d sucked it up, slapped a quick bandage over it and leapt back into the fray.

“You’re not going back into the field.”

He sputters. “Say wha-?”

Raven shakes her head. “He’s right. No going back for at least a month. If you’re that lucky.”

Dick groans, hides his face in his hands at the dramatics. He’s a top athlete with a durable body the likes of which even Marines envy – they’re _overreacting_. There’s still work to be done; they barely even scratched the top of the iceberg. “Look guys, just because I got hit doesn’t mean that I’m an invalid – yes, I’ll give it time to heal but that won’t take any longer than two weeks. Come on, what’s the deal? I’ll do some light work.”

Damian’s face… darkens. It’s not the reddish, puce shade of rage that he tended to turn into when he was still a kid, when he was still the _Demon Spawn_. Rather, it is a controlled anger, one that rolls over the younger man; the way he pulls his lower lip into his mouth infinitesimally shortens the bow of his mouth and the lowering of his eyebrows lets his al Ghul heritage shine through bright and clear. Dick can feel the shivers down his back.

“You nearly _died_ , Grayson.”—he growls at him, and Dick doesn’t think that he imagines the faint _clirring_ sound created by the ruffling feathers straining against their cages. It’s the growl, however, that does it – because it’s of the sort that every ex- and current _Robin_ knows to obey. Dick never considered it to be inheritable, but there it is.

“Your femoral artery has taken a shot and you’re lucky to be alive after you collapsed in the middle of a skirmish. Now suck it up and stay or I will tie you to the bed and leave you.”—Dick’s head is still swimming, trying to reconcile the picture of Damian’s mouth moving and _Batman’s_ voice ordering him when the man turns on his heels and storms out of their Med-Rooms.

Raven remains behind, silent and careful.

He wants to ask her if it really was that bad but it suffices to find her eyes and see the truth reflected in them; find the link in his mind and _see_ the moment of his body giving in, the oozing of the wound, the paleness of his face and throat. If it had been Damian instead of him, Dick doesn’t doubt he’d be at least as angry as the younger man is at him now.

_Angry enough to use_ _**the voice** _ _on him…_

So Dick stays; he accepts the drugs that Raven pumps into him, doesn’t fight the slumber that settles over him like a weighed blanket.

When he wakes up, neither Raven nor Damian are present, but there are two thermoses at his bedside table and upon inspection he learns that one is filled with broth, the other with some obscure tea whose ingredients he cannot make out even if he wanted to.

He trusts, however, that his partners would not poison him.

No matter _how_ angry they are with him.

They leave him alone for the most part of the day even though he can hear them rummaging around in the condo below him, but even as his tea runs out and he can no longer stare at the TV, when his fingers start to itch and he _needs_ to move, they don’t come.

Raven sends him a new thermos of soup and tea with a small note – _Arnica, Ginger, Cardamom, Dandelion Root, Caraway_ – but the silence and solitude remains. The anger remains.

 

-

 

On the third day of his solitary confinement he establishes a routine that, for some reason, seems to depend a lot on Raven’s daily rhythms. He’s not certain if he imagines her running commentary or if it is a product of their link – if maybe she is consciously on the look-out for him.

Wake up _– Don’t be more of a dick than usual. My head can’t take it_.  
Do some stretches to avoid atrophy – _You’re not going to get atrophy, you vain idiot_.  
Have breakfast tea – _Dandelion Root, it’s as close as I’ll let you get to coffee.  
_ Read a book – _Is that Dostoyevsky?_   
Do some more stretches – _Don’t do that again, you’ll upset your stitches_.  
Have some more tea, with the soup – _It’s healthy, quit complaining_.   
Watch some TV – _TV will rot your brain, please stop_.  
Tea and Research – _How did you even-_  
Clean up bureaucratic shit he hasn’t touched in _ever_ – _Oh my god, Richard_.  
Stretch and have tea – _I swear to Azar, stop aggravating your body. You should be resting. I’m going to kill you if you undo all my hard work_.  
Have good-night soup – _Stop. Whining_.   
Stretch – _Seriously_.  
Watch a last TV show – _Goodnight, Richard. Try not to die in your sleep._

Rinse. Repeat.

On the fifth day there is cereal with milk. _– Stop squealing, some of us are still on their first cup of coffee._

 

-

 

They don’t necessarily come around so much as Dick is set to prove that he can, in fact, take care of himself and values his body enough to not pull a similar stunt ever again – so far as it is not necessitated, i.e. a life-or-death-situation.

He starts to walk with the help of the barres a week later, careful to monitor his heartrate as well as taking full stock of his body, cataloguing every push of his muscles and the sensation of his limbs. He walks the distance five times before he sits down for some gentle stretches. He feels like going harder – further – but Damian’s eyes have not left his form ever since he braved the gym and he has a plan to mellow their harshness a little.

Dick is religious in showing Raven that he is reducing his coffee intake – it does have an effect on the blood-flow so it’s not an entirely stupid thing – having one cup in the mornings when he feels he needs it to reboot and then dutifully switching to the Dandelion Root Brew she has been supplying him with. It tastes nutty and not too bad all in all, keeping him awake and alert just as coffee would. He lets her look over his shoulder when he takes the time to cook up something healthy for himself – and maybe making a little too much and leaving it for either of them.

By the second week they glower a little less.

 

-

 

Damian is still not happy, despite the fact that the young man is clinging to him like a barnacle, unwilling, even for a moment, to part from his position draped over him in his bed. Dick is unable to move him just yet and so, leans back, enjoying the cup of coffee that appears with his cereal and thermos of tea while he opens the book he had started to read just yesterday.

It’s a little morbid considering their circumstances, but he cannot help his fascination with the way that the author juggles with common phrases, with the alignment of the words and the sentences and the powerful usage of punctuation.

During his time at GA, he’d hated literature. _Catcher in the Rye_ did not arrest his attention and the only book he could remember liking was Hemmingway’s _For whom the bell tolls_. That it would take him bed-arrest to come appreciate literature again is a thing he would not have thought possible.

 

-

 

He moves back into his room at the start of the third week. Rationally only very few hospitals would keep their patients this long, even though a shot to the femoral artery would probably be categorized as a difficult injury and he would have needed to stay at an ICU… under normal conditions. Thus he moved himself out of the Med Room and back into the hallowed core of his nest, promptly sinking into his covers.

Not having had the chance at a proper shower, he relishes in the shower-bench permitting him to luxuriate for half an hour under the hot spray without needing to put a strain on his leg, easing muscles and sleeking his bed-ruffled wings.

They would be hell to comb through later, but right now all he could think of is the beautifully gentle pitter-pat of the water.

 

-

 

The only reason he is saved from incredible – and probably incredibly _aggravating_ – contortions in order to comb out his plumage is because once he steps out of the bathroom, sweatpants low on his hips, both Raven and Damian are waiting in his room, sitting on his bed with a jar of his favourite feather-oil that he knows is expensive as shit because Bruce had him try out various brands until Dick managed to stick with this one.

He knows he is forgiven when Damian puts the first season of _The X-files_ in and starts to work on his right wing, whereas Raven’s hands gently starts to part the cluster of feathers on his left wing. He doesn’t know when he falls asleep, but he knows that when he wakes, they are both curled into themselves at his prospective sides.

 

***

 

“This is useless.”—she growls as she descends from her observatory perch, joining Wallace, Richard and Artemis at their current position. Artemis bristles, golden wings ruffling even though they do not _spread_ , hands clenching, but Wallace – so much like _Barry_ that it hurts – follows Richard’s cue and turns towards her, curious; waiting. _So much like Barry_. “He’s well collected, both his attacks and defences are premeditated and judged by the way he’s holding us at bay there seems to not be a single thing he has not thought of.”

Tim’s voice crackles through their comm links, the sound of furious battle in the background. _“Affirmative.”_ —he supports Raven’s input. He has seen her for the first time today, but Raven _knows_ him from so many other realities. _“Can’t get an in no matter what combination we’re trying and as it is we’re nearing the five hour mark.”_

Which was another point: because time was of the essence.

“ _Do you have an alternative?”_ —Damian demands. She can see him defending their last line against the multiplying mass of Mini-Bots – it’s a struggle he won’t be able to hold up forever.

“I can influence his pride.”—she reveals, voice stronger and more assured than she truly feels about this capability of hers. She does not like to touch the minds of people in such a fashion, but Luthor is cocky on his good days and she doesn’t doubt the likelihood of her success.

“ _How would that make any difference?”_ —Tim yells over the comm; stressed and out of breath. And, Great Azar, _Bluejay_ will kill her if something happens to his precious Tim – even if the Netherworld is already meant for the dead; he’d find a way.

“I can turn it into _Hubris_.”—Raven clarifies somewhat archly. “Basically I swell his head to balloon size and you wait for the most opportune moment to put a needle to it.”

She could go the other way too: reduce his pride until he would be second-guessing his every move, but it is probably stealthier and less detectable if she were to just augment it and let him believe that he was in over his head if they managed to bring the man down. Richard and Wallace both look like they’re at least considering it. On the one hand, it’s an option that they have not come equipped for, but on the other hand that very trait might just mean that neither was Luthor – and if they could even just bring him to slow down and look the other way, they’d at least win the battle, if not the war.

“ _Do it.”_ —Kaldur’ahm’s voice finally breaks the contemplative silence. _“If you think it can give us an advantage, do it.”_

Raven nods as she levitates herself off the ground, looking for the best position from which to work but remain undetected. Richard appears at her hip. “You do you, we guard your six.”

It’s as good as anything, so when Raven cautiously rises through the branches of the next best tree, coming to a stop just before she breaks through the crown, Wallace and Artemis both take their directions from Richard, who vaults himself up into the tree in front of her.

Raven settles into her Lotus position and digs deep into herself with just one breath. 

There are iron portals in front of her mind’s eye, layered with every protective spell she’s ever learned in her life and during her travels and surrounded by so many traps that getting there is a first hurdle – but she manages.

The doors look bigger up close, heavy and thick like the portcullis of an ancient castle. As Raven puts her hands to the metal-wings, she swallows against the unsettling surge of vertigo that powers through her and concentrates harder.

Years of oppression fall from her.

Raven Roth lets loose on the demon.

 

-

 

They win the fight by a landslide; because once Raven has a firm, ruthless, grip on Lex Luthor’s pride, she makes him careless, she lets him gloat and boast and overlook vulnerable points in his strategy. She steals his composure and opens him wide for attacks from their side and when he notices that something is wrong, it’s too late.

Tim vaults by him to disable the Kryptonite-Diffuser and before he can properly assess the ramification of this action, Kon has already ripped out the Power Core of the Central Unit – Mini-bots crumbling. If there is anything else Luthor wants to do, he doesn’t get to, because Damian and Bart are on him, pushing him from his position of safety and into a strategical defence.

It’s only when he is subdued and out of commission that Raven dares to descend from her perch in the tree.

Her descent is careful and slow and she doesn’t dare to move from her Lotus Seat, fears that if she twitches with even just one digit of her fingers, she will set off the nausea that has been bubbling in her stomach like hot acid ever since she has first touched her mind to Luthor’s Sin.

While she is going to throw up – there is no question about it – she would at least like to try and minimize the scale of the consequences. She can feel her human intestines acting up; can feel her fragile human lungs rattling in her breast trying to battle the sulphuric gases that a demon would naturally produce.

Her head is swimming and there is a loud ringing in her ears, but she feels the ground solidly under her when she finalizes her sinking and promptly digs her fingers – _claws_ – into the rich soil, bending forward.

She fights to regain control, body hot and clammy and then cold as she dry-heaves; she feels like cotton and then she doesn’t feel herself at all, and her entire focus abruptly and dizzyingly zooms in to the nausea that seems to crawl upwards through her entire body. Her sides squeeze, and she closes her eyes against the gag-reflex.

The world around her falls away as she fights for breath and for control over her body – _her mind_ – while physically dispelling her demonic side; whatever she influences with her magic becomes part of her after all and this is no different. She coughs desperately, jaw unhinged, lungs demanding air, mouth still _full_ and when she opens her eyes, she takes in the partially-familiar tar-black-sleaze dangling from her quivering lips, just barely out of her field of vision.

Between her hands the grass has withered under the onslaught of acid and Raven knows what comes next, knows what she needs to do despite the fact that her mind cannot concentrate on anything else but _naked survival_ right at this very moment.

Her left arm shakes in protest when she puts her weight on it, freeing her right and reaching for the glob of black that is quickly threatening to suffocate her, underdeveloped claws trying to get a hold of something in her throat. Raven sobs and pulls.

 

-

 

For a moment, the world is too bright, too loud. There is too much air in her lungs, and she coughs heavily, ungracefully spitting out the last remnants of black tar and vomit, before she wipes her right hand on her cloak – _burn later_ – and tries to sit up slowly.

“Careful.”—someone rumbles to her left and she would open her eyes if she didn’t feel so utterly defeated and incapable of not slumping towards the arms that pull her in.

She smells atrocious and her mouth is icky, but whoever has pulled her in gently wipes her chin, gives her a few sips of water to wash out her mouth and then to drink, allows her to sink further into their presence. They’re warm against her back, solid and unwavering even as they tend to her – blot the sweat off her face, rearrange the heavy brooch around her cape so that it will not sit above her throat, comb her hair out of her face.

Raven does not have the strength to open her eyes.

But she does catalogue the soothing scent of Patchouli.

 

-

 

“You knew this was going to happen.”

She wakes up in unfamiliar surroundings that she is too feeble to analyse properly yet. The weighed blanket over her lets her know that she might have had a somnambulist panic attack – not the first time it happened; luckily enough she’s too drained to really conjure up her nightmares.

Turning her head is difficult work, but Raven prevails, finding Damian at her bedside, his arms crossed, the skin under his eyes bruised and sunken – she can tell how much sleep he hasn’t had in the last few… days? Weeks?

“Yeah.”—she croaks a little balefully. Damian reaches for a glass with a straw and lets her take a few unhurried sips – she feels like lead. “My… less stellar genetics take a lot out of me.”

Dick would appreciate the word-play.

Maybe.

“You’re angry.”—she states then, remembers that the look she now sees over his face had first made an appearance when Dick had failed to mention his almost deadly injury; she doesn’t think it’s any different in this case.

“Damn right I’m angry.”—he snarls. “You endangered yourself like a complete idiot, didn’t warn either of us. Between Grayson and you I’m going to be short a team in no time at all.”

There’s something else that he doesn’t say but she doesn’t push. Forges on instead: “Do you fear me?”

Damian stands, with an ease that defies the tiredness that seeps from him, brushes off invisible lint and gives her a nonchalant look. “I have seen your kind, Roth, there are worse things in life.”

He leaves her.

Dick doesn’t show up at all.

 

-

 

Tim, curiously, is the one who is there for her when her team proper is still angry at her. He makes certain that she has liquid foods and tea, books to read, and does not over-exert herself. He helps her to the tub but leaves her to wash and dry herself, brings her clothing options but lets her dress herself and allows, generally, for a lot of liberty while she is at Mount Justice.

Because apparently both Dick and Damian short-circuited when she lost consciousness and Mount Justice was the best option at the time.

She observes the Red Robin, finds that her _Bluejay_ had not once in his tales been exaggerating about the young man and she can see how he would fall in love with him – how he would go mad over the plans of his revivers.

A week later, she is able to cautiously stand and walk again and decides that Timothy Drake is a godsend who is also a tiny bit of a geek with a weird sleep cycle – but he has formulated the perfect training and diet plans for her to get back on her feet as soon as possible.

“I really don’t want you to go too early, but Damian and Dick are breathing down my neck and I swear to _god_ the alliance of those two is the unholiest of all.”

Raven agrees silently, but only smiles at him and prompts him to sleep some more before tomorrow. _Bluejay_ would have her head if his Tim were to work himself into exhaustion over her.

 

-

 

It takes her a month to recover from using her powers, given that she used them to an extent she has not ever reached before. Tim sits with her, talks to her about her reasons for doing it when she knew what was going to happen, works on cases while she rests, sometimes comes with news from Blüdhaven, but regrets – every time she asks – that there has not been any changes in Dick’s or Damian’s attitudes.

When she finally packs her things, she wonders quietly if she should, maybe, not return to Blüdhaven if they’re still angry with her.

Tim smiles softly when she comes to say her goodbyes and pulls her into a strong hug; white wings enfold her without hesitance, as if he hasn’t heard about her whole life-story in these last few weeks. “Don’t worry about those two, okay? You spooked them – they’ll get over it real soon.”

She’s not certain but smiles in response.

And as it is: Tim remains correct ( _of course,_ her _Bluejay_ snorts proudly in the back of her mind) – when she steps out of the Mountain, there they are waiting.

Damian’s face is still a little drawn, even when he hands her a cup of coffee – the first she’s had in a month – fingers lingering a little too long on her dainty hands that look so pale in comparison to his bronze skin. Dick has less compunctions about pulling her into a hug, wings encasing her strangely carefully in contrast to the iron bands around her that are his arms.

“Don’t do that again.”—he tells her simply, pressing his lips to the crown of her head. “Not until you’ve given us a fool-proof plan of action okay?”


	11. Verity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _With a shield in your hand/ There were sticks and stones/ But no one broke their bones/ The bond is bigger with each day we live_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eternal gratitude to [Bela Nightshade](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Bela_Nightshade/pseuds/Bela_Nightshade) as usual because you are amazing. 
> 
> Also: getting down to a little heated something at the end ;) Get ready for a tiny bit of action and a lot of affection

 

+++

 

He has not planned on the occurrence at all; he could have gone years without actually ever showing his father’s shame and mother’s pride to his team – he’s done it before after all and he didn’t doubt that he would have been able to do it again.

He likes Roth.

That is enough reason to be cautious around her when it comes to vulnerabilities.

Not that he thinks she would exploit them. Knowing her and knowing how well she meshes with Grayson and him, even though the odds should be stacked unfairly high against her in that regard, she would settle herself in his blind point and silently nest there. And if he would ever notice it, because there are times when he thinks he might not, given her secretive nature, he would feel it a thousand-fold if ever she would vanish from that spot again.

Damian knows that feeling.

He doesn’t wish to associate it to Roth.

So no, he has not planned for this – at all. But when it happens, he doesn’t think twice about his actions.

They have been spending the day as a whole family at a WE-shindig that Damian originally has had no intentions of attending. Somehow Drake and Grayson have worn him down and because Drake has let his father know that he was going to bring _The Spoiler_ as his Plus One – why he wouldn’t come with _Todd_ was a mystery to Damian, but then again the redhead was supposed to be dead – Damian has let Bruce know that both he and Grayson would be coming with Roth.

She had been reluctant. As had their father been.

And for some reason it did not feel like a coincidence that the two of them would be hesitant to meet when they knew near to nothing about each other.

But, like him, Roth had been unprepared for the Drake-Grayson-Combo and found herself giving in. Which is why she is currently dressed in a classy suit that fits her so astoundingly well Damian is certain she’s had it tailored – the indigo-wool compliments her skin and hair, the pearl blouse setting an adequate accent. He knows she dithered when she handed over her cloak to one of the temps hired, but ultimately he thinks it was a good decision. As much as she loves her cloaks, carrying one would have infringed on her current powerful assortment. Also, if his eyes have not tricked him, then her fingers continue to repeatedly curl around a silver bangle of sapphire-and-pearl circling her wrist.

Roth has an Aura of power around her, even if she is one of the very few to actually be _grounded_ in the crowd surrounding her and has bravely endured – see: ignored – any whispers and-or stares. Damian and Grayson have been prepared for this. If it’s not him standing at her side both as a Wayne and as one of the _grounded_ ones, it’s Grayson with his cautiously decorated plumage, one wing always curved partially around her. They’re taking care to protect her from the mingling, curious socialites while entertaining them at the same time. Even so, he’s seen Drake cut in to save her once – which was much appreciated – and has seen her hold herself with great poise and calmness in a conversation that could at best be described as racist.

He feels more at ease when either he or Grayson are present, no matter the looks that Bruce keeps sending him. As it is, Damian has made a very conscious effort to avoid his father… and _her_ all day.

This plan fails spectacularly when one of the Securities stumbles into the party tent and tries to make surreptitiously for Bruce Wayne; _trying_ being the operative verb because he does not manage to evade the hawkish eyes of the crowd, especially not with his wings ruffled in the way they are. Damian smells the unease before the man has reached his father and gives him a report in a low voice – most of the Wayne Children are cautiously alert by now, though their curiosity is well hidden behind raised wine-glasses, canapés, and animated discussions.

But a security braving the party tent while the shindig is in full blow can only mean one thing: there has been some sort of breach.

Brucie smiles consolingly at the disconcerted man who looks about ready to drop from his anxiety and Damian makes his way back towards Grayson and Roth at a leisurely, inconspicuous pace. Grayson meets him halfway, protective hand on Roth’s hip.

Later he chalks it up to his lack of discipline that the very moment he lets himself be jealous about Grayson’s socially accepted proclivity to just _touch_ people and be free with it when he himself cannot seem to even let his own fingers linger on Roth’s while handing her coffee – he can still feel the gentle heat emanating from her dry skin if he concentrates – is the very moment hell breaks loose.

The first bullets shatter the champagne tower and the ice sculpture respectively, both of which are negligible casualties that Damian is one part thankful for because it kicks him into gear and one part _not_ because his body has been trained for these possibilities since he was a mere toddler and the responses are mostly instinctual by now.

People don’t usually shoot at _Robin_ or at _Blackbird_.

At least not without them considering the possibility first and being able to prepare accordingly.

Damian Wayne has no such luck and when the thin acryl of the tent becomes a victim, he reacts on pure instinct.

Titanium-alloy tears through leather constraints and layers of silk as his wings spread.

He dives for Grayson and Roth, aviators deflecting lead as he does. When he clumsily lands atop the both of them, he curls in around them. He is fighting every reflex in his body to reach for a projectile, any projectile, and hurl it at their assailants with what would be deadly precision.

He gnashes his teeth together instead, pulls the two of them closer even as they react and make themselves smaller in turn.

_Shit._

He’s forgotten that this hurts.

 

-

 

He is all over the news the next morning and he doesn’t know if he wants to hear or see it, so he avoids it studiously. However the plan doesn’t do any better this time than it did last time and he is spectacularly annoyed at Roth when he finds her contemplating the back of his shirt during breakfast.

Why he’s chosen to strap them tight to his back – again – he can’t quite tell, but it’s probably mostly routine by now. Something that his hands will automatically do even if he’s barely awake; it could be any time at all and he could be sleep-deprived as fuck and his body memory would still take over on his account.

That’s what he goes with.

“Does it hurt you when you strap them in like this?”—she asks carefully when he finds her eyes and gives her a hard, un-caffeinated glare.

It had, at one point, back when he’d _started_ to bind his wings close to his body in order to pass for a _grounded_ individual and evade the look of horror on his father’s face. He remembers the sorrowful look Pennyworth would shoot him – discretion cast aside sometime during Todd’s tenure as _Robin_ , if the old Falcon was to be believed – when Damian would pop two Advil just before going to sleep and another one with his first cup of tea.

Now though—

He shrugs, sips his Colombian. “Yesterday was harsh.”—he admits, or rather allows himself to admit. “But no. It doesn’t hurt to… tie them back.”

Roth nods and says no more.

Maybe he starts unhooking his wings more often after that; maybe he starts to enjoy the span of his metal again; maybe he finds himself relishing in speaking with his aviators once more. Maybe he catches Grayson’s eyes following the shimmer of sun reflecting from his titanium-alloy-aviators. Maybe he feels Roth’s cloak caress the feathers of his plumage more often than the space in the condo would necessitate. Maybe… maybe this helps erase the look of horror on his father’s face that his mind had never seemed able to shake properly.

 

***

 

Dick stares at the small box.

It’s an innocent box, admittedly, and familiar – doesn’t ring a single alarm-bell whatsoever. He knows the box, could tell it apart in a sea of boxes. He knows the cherry-wood and the coat of arms burned artfully into the lower right-hand corner. He’s thumbed it in times of distress, when he couldn’t sleep, or even just when he needed extra strength.

Wherever he’d gone – save for that one place that had nearly killed him – it had accompanied him.

What makes no sense is why it’s here: in the shared bathroom, the one that they all have access to – the _only_ one. He’s certain he had left it next to his bed yesterday night, where he always keeps his treasures.

So one of the other two must have taken it out and deposited it here, in the middle of the condo, for all the world to see – and Dick is rather certain that it’s _not_ Raven. She values the concept of privacy and lets them have theirs so long as she gets to keep hers. His fingers smooth over the lid, softer to the touch than usual – recently oiled, judged by the new shine.

Dick contemplates this for a few more quiet moments.

Damian has made the effort of sneaking into his room and relocating his treasure-trove.

But not before taking care of it.

His fingers open the lid almost without his will, eyes taking stock of the baubles inside on autopilot. Nothing is missing, all is as it should be. Maybe…

Carefully, Dick selects the very first _Tear_ he’d ever received – a gift from his original Flock, given the day he’d first participated in a show. It’s a simple thing, really, gold and glittering when he lifts one of the pins with practiced ease, following the smooth dangle of chain to the other pin.

It is supposed to symbolise a tightrope.

Dick carefully swings it around his shoulders, clipping it into old and hidden holes – last remnants of his piercings – without fumbling or hesitation. The presence tickles his feathers gently and for a few moments he is all too aware of the piece of jewellery, before he closes the box and finalizes his morning ablutions.

When he steps out of the bathroom to clear it for anyone following, he has forgotten about the chain altogether.

 

-

 

If Raven and Damian notice his slow but steady return to the decoration of his wings, they don’t comment on it outright.

Sometimes she will comb through his feathers just when he’s slipped into _Nightwing_ , fingers catching softly on the pitch-black ornaments he occasionally wears, or smoothing right through. Sometimes Dick will come into the bathroom to find it humid with remnants of either Damian and-or Raven having been in before him and a bauble or two lying innocently atop the lid of the cherry-wood-box. He never fails to don them before he walks out to greet the day.

When they gift him with new shiny trinkets – they picked up that particular trait somewhere around their third week of living together – now they tend to sometimes also go for piercings and clippings and Dick has at least five from each of them. He would feel spoiled if it weren’t for the look of pride on Damian’s smug face and the serene façade of happy contentment on Raven’s when they detect their baubles in his black feathers.

 

***

 

Raven has… misgivings about this plan.

Several of them, actually, and they all sound like perfectly good reasons to opt out right now.

“Roth.”

She takes a deep breath, reminds herself that this is a small price to pay indeed in order to find out just _who_ has been moving in on the young women and men around town and county and thought that selling them off like cattle was a viable prospect.

One breath doesn’t quite cut it.

She takes another one. Deep – profound; Raven feels it sink to her belly button.

And promptly feels her costume again. Feels bare – exposed and she wants to refuse.

“Raven?”

Her head jerks up and she automatically dances a little backwards into the safety of shadows – into reaching distance of her cloak. Come to think of it.

 

-

 

Raven has a lot of friends in obscure places.

This might come as a surprise or it might not – either way, it is the truth and one such friend is the reason that she is currently shimmering and shining like a jewel underneath the gauzy white cloak she has hidden under for the time being.

The limousine that had been sent for them gives her only a relative space of safety. She already should be in-role by now and part of her is, because there is only so much that the impending panic attack can stop her from, and helping other people by sacrificing her own well-being is not one of those things.

So Raven keeps her head low, breathes deep into her stomach and focusses on the feeling of the dainty chains that dangle from her neck – one ending up playfully wound around Richard’s long, dextrous fingers, the other end clasped lightly but securely by Damian’s dry hand.

They don’t have a lot more time and Raven needs to get into a certain headspace for this, so she expands her focal point to the warmth that both men exude from her sides. They’ve talked about this; Raven knows the plan – she knows that there is nothing she needs to fear, that she is really only there to look pretty.

Technically.

Because while the details have all been hashed out, there is one major point that both of the men have glossed over and Raven has not bothered to correct them on – and this little element could break their whole excursion.

Worse: It could break the team.

Raven takes another deep breath, trying to calm her nerves to no avail.

This is not going to go away until it’s done and over with.

Damian leans forward in his seat, sneaks his strong fingers under her chin to raise her head – make her look him in the eye.

“You seem nervous, _ya rouhi_.”—he says it quietly, voice smooth and polished and her mind compares it to Onyx before she realizes just what exactly he is doing. She smiles wanly, lets him know that she’s detected the ruse of his _Cuckoo_ , and appreciates it.

“Forgive me, _sayyid_.”—she breathes gently, her accent not quite as perfect as it could be, and keeps her eyes on his. She pushes herself a little further into the headspace she needs for this – _he has not given her permission to look away_ – and a little further into the collar she wears, into their hands. “I find that I am.”

Richard is pushing one of his hands soothingly into her hair, curling his fingers and not exactly pulling but letting her know that he’s there, right at her back. She relaxes the muscles in her neck, lolls into the caress heedlessly. The voice in the back of her head reminding her to do this for the benefit of their _Chauffeur_ who is now watching, for the benefit of the people that have been taken advantage of, is getting distant, quieter.

“Is there something in particular you find yourself aflutter about?”—the oldest asks, cants her upper body against his, leading with the head he controls, so she is forced to draw her feet up on the bench, knees clenching tightly – not quite there _yet_ – when she faces Damian; his eyes burn into her through the dim lighting in the car, provided by the passing street-lamps.

When she doesn’t answer, he pulls a little on her collar, questing and almost too soft, but she bends into it – leaves her hair to remain in Richard’s hands while she gives in to the tender pull of Damian’s chain. Breathing is hard for a moment because she cannot decide whether or not swallowing is a necessity and then finds that it’s not a possibility – Damian gives her back her room.

“Wings, _ʾ_ _asyād_.”—she concedes as she carefully inhales, spreads her legs to the side of Damian’s hips, and leans further into Richard’s embrace. “Wings.” The tell-tale glimmer of her outfit momentarily catches the attention of the men and Damian’s eyes snap up towards hers, the only indication that he has momentarily been shocked out of character. Richard mouths something or gives him a look that bounces him right back into it.

“ _Ya Helo_ , I am quite certain that there is not a single thing you need to worry about.”—he soothes her as he draws circles on the outsides of her knees. Raven welcomes the rush of tingling warmth that emits from their point of contact and sighs softly when Richard’s hands sneak under her cloak, permitting herself to be seen like this.

She is certain that she does not imagine the stutter in Richard’s breathing when her cloak falls from her shoulders. Or the surprised curse falling from Damian’s lips.

Raven has friends in obscure places.

And Philadelphia just so happens to work as a Burlesque Dancer, which is why the pinkette was just all too happy to share some of her loot with Raven – truth be told, the costume could be hers if she only said the word – and even more so when she’d been told just what Raven would be going undercover for.

Girl-friendships go a long way.

Raven has learned loads since her first tentative alliance with Starfire.

The streetlights catch on the stones bedazzling her; the upper body is a wondrous conundrum of symmetrically aligned chains of jewels meeting gems at nearly every turn or convergence in a pattern that has no rhyme or reason other than to highlight the assets of the wearer. If it weren’t for the sheer, sparkly fabric underneath the harness Raven would not only chafe… but also show off a lot more than she feels up to.

As it is, even the sous-fabric serves as a flashing, shiny, arrow pointing out the stronger points of her physique, clinging to her like a second skin and washing past the glittery loops of her upper-body-decoration and below the rhinestone-chain-skirt that glides around her parted thighs.

“ _Ya Amar._ ”—Damian sighs in an unfamiliar way – fingers quivering as they dance over the skin he can reach, the skin he allows himself to touch. He is barely looking at her ensemble, focusing rather on the leathery aviators that Dick’s fingers are curling around.

They are usually black, but while it is bad enough for her to have to unveil them, she would rather not be recognized if ever she has to spread them again in public and compromise their identities. Thus for this very occasion, Raven has allowed Philadelphia to literally go crazy on them, to colour and tattoo them in a fashion that would allow for disguise and that makes her usually sombre wings glitter and shine like the rest of her.

One of Richard’s hands comes to squeeze her neck and Raven sinks into it, embraces the pressure of the thumb and the middle finger against her carotid making her pleasantly dizzy for about a moment. Her mind is officially gone, her headspace _hers_.

“There is absolutely nothing to worry about, pet.”—Richard croons, fastens his teeth around the exact same spot he has just had his thumb on, coaxes the blood to rush a little faster – tricks her body into dizzying her just a little more.

If anything, _he_ has caught up on her current state of mind.

Somebody’s hands settle on her hip, tighten gently. One of the hands plays with the strands of her rhinestone-skirt. Raven sinks into oblivion promoted by sandpaper-hands and wet teeth, forgets everything and gives into the role of _decoy_.

 

-

 

They kill two birds with one stone and find enough dirt on the very mob-boss whose men had shot Richard not a few months ago.

Raven keeps the costume.

And… sometimes… sometimes she’ll go without cloak and truly fly during the New Moons.

 

***

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bela was curiuos about the Arabic terms and... well they're all kinds of endearments, let's see: 
> 
> _sayyid_ \- would, in this case, mean something like 'prince' or 'lord'  > on that note: asayad is its plural  
>  _ya rouhi_ \- 'my soul'/ 'my dear beloved'  
>  _ya helo_ \- 'my beautiful'  
>  _ya amar_ \- 'my moon'/ 'my most beautiful' 
> 
> I got this from [here](https://blogs.transparent.com/arabic/10-most-common-expressions-about-love-in-arabic/) so if there happens to be any translation errors please feel free to correct me because I am not actually knowledgeable in this language :3
> 
> And because I came up with a vague idea about but no precise details concerning Raven's updo I hit the interwebs and came up with beautiful, shiny things :3
> 
>  [1](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/444237950729312478/)  
> [2](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/541557923925950136/)  
> [3](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/394909461056383905/)
> 
> (sorry for the links, pictures didn't want to work :(... )


	12. Interlude - Damian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sleeplessly embracing/ Yawn yearns into me_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With any luck you'll have one chapter before our summer break - otherwise this is going to have to tide you over :/ 
> 
> Many thanks, as always, to [Bela Nightshade](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Bela_Nightshade/pseuds/Bela_Nightshade) who is a pillar of support and font of patience :)

 

+++

 

They fall asleep on the couch more often than not these days. It’s an almost logical conclusion to their familiarity with each other. Now that their darkest secrets seem to have been aired, there is no apparent reason to excuse oneself from their tangle of limbs shortly before succumbing to slumber, like either Roth or he would have done beforehand.

He is infinitely glad that he has had the foresight to invest in a proper couch – neither too lumpy nor too hard – because while he has not consciously considered the possibility of all three of them falling asleep on it, he wonders these days if maybe his purchase had been influenced by the unconscious hope for it.

Grayson sleeps in the middle.

By unspoken agreement, both Roth and he usually arrange their oldest between them more or less surreptitiously. Damian sleeps with his back to the entrance hall; his wings are durable and his reflexes are a little sharper than either of theirs – instincts honed in his formative years by a Flock that had had no compunction about breaking and entering into his Nest if it was for the sake of a training exercise.

If any assailant manages to slip past their defences unnoticed, Damian is the first to be encountered, metal wings in a constant state of half-alert even when he is resting. Aggressors who would make it through the front door would need a modicum of rationale to their actions and Damian prides himself on being the quickest to think on his feet where battle-instinct is concerned.

Roth sleeps with her back towards the windows, black-leather wings – _she reminds him of Goliath_ – wrinkled a little awkwardly but locking gently into position in her sleep. If her wings are anything like his friend’s, then they might be even more durable than Damian’s. Demon hide is not easy to penetrate after all, and maybe that is why she is taking the large glass-front.

Assailants entering through the window are either magic or irrational – both things that Damian can fight, but rarely on instinct. Roth’s wings provide the best cover in both cases.

Grayson is in their middle, spreading out limbs and wings alike, curling arms and feet around the two of them, tangling fingers into hair or cloth. His aviators run on instinct, covering them where the blanket has slipped, touching soft down to their faces in soothing intervals despite their carrier being fast asleep himself.

It is this tickling sensation of the tar-black plumage on the back of his neck that has woken him in the first place. His partner’s position should be uncomfortable – what with the veritable contortion of his body – but for some reason Grayson manages to sleep right through it, safe and sound.

His eyes slip to Roth’s serene sleeping face, where she cuddles into a pillow that rests somewhere on Grayson’s upper arm. He would not be surprised if Grayson loses feeling in his limb… or if Roth wakes with a stiff neck tomorrow.

Behind her, Blüdhaven blinks its city lights lazily at him like false-stars.

 


	13. Ravelling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Do you want the truth or something beautiful?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Bela came through for all of us one last time before the grand summer break - I'm not going to be available for a long time and it looks like it's going to be touch and go for a while with both of us until Semptember, but we're both going to do our very, very best and I am so, so, so, so thankful for your help and enthusiasm Bela because I could not do this as well without you :) Thank you so much

 

+++

 

Caring for Richard’s wings is, for some reason, always as much of an ordeal as it is a pleasant passing of time. In the quieter moments, she can admit to liking it.

They don’t choose a particular evening, despite the fact that a routine in that regard would probably do them some good, but then it might make them predictable to the already rampant crime syndicates around town. Instead, they always make certain that one evening every week is reserved but for this purpose. Raven has started to stock up on genre movies that Richard would generally enjoy – Action-Comedies are his favourite, though she cannot, for the love of _Azar_ _,_ tell why.

Grooming, she has found, can be surprisingly meditative. Even Damian has long forgotten to try and keep up with the movie on screen, and instead focusses solely on the parting, oiling and combing of the sleek plumage in their hands.

Raven knows that not even Richard himself is watching the movies any longer, even though he tends to snort and giggle at mostly appropriate moments. However, every time she sneaks a peek at the older man during periods of utter silence, he seems to be in a half-trance, eyes lowered or closed completely, body lax and pliant with the only movements being those of his rhythmically expanding and compressing chest.

While she’s never been particularly good at admitting to human emotions, especially not when in relation to other human – or humanoid – beings, she can, at least in the quiet of her mind’s privacy, freely confess that… Richard looks beautiful in those moments.

It’s hard to look away when the shoulders that she’s watched bearing a Cowl he’s never wanted finally drop away from his ears where they are almost constantly bunched up as if he is always expecting a hit. It’s not unusual for people in their line of profession; frankly it could be a lot worse. His hair is getting a little long; tips brush past the nape of his neck and a separate part of her mind thinks about approaching the subject of a cut – because _Azar_ forbid he run around with that horrendous pony-tail of his ever again while she is present.

During these times, too, she gets away with looking a little too much to still be considered _collegial_. Then again… it’s not as if their sleeping arrangements are adherent to professional work-rules. She has had plenty of mornings of waking up in either of their arms or under either of their wings, even if Damian and she start the night off by putting Richard in between them. They’re clothed then, at least.

But when they are like this, she gets to see the scarred expanse of his back, of his chest and his shoulders, the knobs that his collar-bones finish on, resting almost delicately on an upper body that has been shaped by a life-time of vigilantism and acrobatics.

And maybe that is a reason to cherish these hours when Richard would willingly surrender all parts of himself and simply let himself be cared for. And maybe it is a reason to ease her fingers into dancing through the plumage, into making them light and soft and falling into the serene comfort that is caring for another.

 

***

 

He’d known about Damian’s wings beforehand, had learned about them during six painstaking months within their first year of working together – half a year in which he’d been needed to bulldoze down the Iron Curtain that the younger man had erected around the subject of his aviators.

Dick still doesn’t quite know why it’s taken the younger man so long to talk to him about it – or, at least, he’s never been told outright. He has a vague, if strong, idea about how it came to be that a self-assured-see-cocky boy would hide a veritable mechanical masterpiece in the house of his very father.

So when Damian moves in with him, Dick is there. At the end of the first month, he enters Damian’s room without so much as a word, tool-wrap in hand, and simply plonks himself down on the cushioned stool at the foot of Damian’s plush nest.

It’s a waiting game at first.

Always has been.

Damian feels phenomenally uncomfortable with unconditional acts towards his person – this is not any different. Maybe especially this.

But they do end up calibrating and polishing his wings the way they always have since they’ve started working together. This, too, does not change once Raven is pulled into the fold, although it stays between the two of them and behind closed doors for a while.

 

-

 

Damian tentatively leaves the door open a gap when they adjust his wings after the disastrous WE function and it takes Dick a lot of discipline that he usually does not have to keep his mouth shut about it. As it is, while working on Damian’s wings, he can’t help but worry his lips in a conscious effort to stay silent.

He does manage, however.

Which— A+ for Dick Grayson, okay?

 

-

 

It’s after that particular recon-mission that things start to change yet again.

Dick doesn’t know what has possessed him – them – to propose Raven as decoy, Dick or Damian would have done just as well… rationally. But then Raven had acquiesced and not said a word; and until the limousine there had literally not been a visible reason for her to be as suddenly nervous as she’d been.

Her wings had been a revelation.

Amongst other things that he wasn’t going to think about (for his own sanity)…

Much…

…you know

…

Shut up.

Naturally the discovery that Raven has wings would impact Damian’s relation to his own aviators – especially because she herself has a difficult time showing them in public. They are most definitely not _bird_ after all and maybe that is all there is to it from the outside, but being acquainted with Raven’s story as he is – _as they are_ – it is easy to realize that there is a lot more.

Those wings are not bird. Which means that they come from the other half of her family – from her father, the very being that has tried to take over the world once and has only been stopped due to Raven herself and her iron will.

Dick is not surprised that she is not overly fond of them. But then again: the fact that she has managed to entrust herself to both Damian and Dick – _in more than one way_ (shut _up_ ) – has given Damian food for thought it would seem.

Because the next time Dick seeks him out with his tool-wrap, Damian is sitting in the very middle of their work-shop. It’s about as exposed as the young man can be and Dick does not question him – too much – when Damian does the spiel and finally allows his aviators to be worked on.

They need it this month too because the whole tearing-through-his-specially-manufactured-constraints has left the aviators a little limp and off balance.

“One of B’s specialties.”—Dick groans when he tries to figure out just which cluster it is that has Damian veering off the intended course by a 2.3% curve. For a normal citizen this might not be overly concerning, but as a vigilante this can mean life or death. “I don’t see why you needed to aggravate the tri-weave.”

Damian clucks his tongue, arms crossed in front of his chest as he aims to keep his aviators as motionless as possible. “Titanium-dipped tri-weave, Grayson.”—he almost sounds proud and Dick entertains the thought of slapping the back of his head. “Encased in leather.”

“Of course.”—he breathes quietly – definitely _deserving_ of the cuff – touches the miniature tool to the feather-cluster he’s chosen. He’s not a hundred percent certain however.

“No.”—Raven’s calm, quiet voice comes unexpected and literally out of nothing. Her posture, when he turns to look at her, is flawless and non-threatening, hovering silently within Damian’s field of vision – as if she knows that this position is difficult for their youngest to maintain. “Other feather-cluster.”—she instructs then, when Dick doesn’t move. “You need to go lower if he’s off trajectory.”

Which, of course, makes sense and Dick trusts Raven which is why, announcing his operation with a touch of his fingers, he immediately sets to inspect the cluster of feathers that almost immediately jumps out at him when he looks lower. He wonders how he could have missed it.

Raven, in the meantime, rolls her shoulders and floats herself into _Padmasana_ next to Damian and him.

She doesn’t quite _look_ at Damian while Dick works, rather inserts herself into Dick’s actions, directing him now and then when he cannot seem to find the right cluster to correct and watching Damian beat his wings against the big turbine at intervals, gauging any weaknesses.

They are done a lot sooner than they would have been if Dick and Damian would have had to figure it out themselves, and when Damian is finally back in his shirt again, he dares to look at Raven. “You’re surprisingly adaptable no matter what environment you find yourself in.”—he comments quietly.

Raven shrugs. “I learned a lot.”—she agrees. Something clicks with Dick because that’s what she said when she first beat him at hacking the JLA-database, when it had been his prerogative until then.

“Vic taught you?”—he asks, giddy of the new discovery.

She descends from her position, puts her feet back on the ground – out of Cape she always looks that tiny bit _slighter_ , as if the wool would lend her more space, and she is dressed extremely casual for her usual standards. Black, short pants and a white shirt; she catches his roaming eyes and doesn’t exactly answer his look with her blank face. He remembers quickly that today is her Laundry Day.

“Amongst others.”—she finally admits. “But Victor _did_ deem me trustworthy enough to aid with his cybernetic aviators.”

He wants to needle and grill her on her relationship to Victor – it’s something he hasn’t ever really understood, even until now, but he refrains; he’s learning to be a good boy and give the people around him space.

“What else did you learn?”—Damian asks instead, rolling his shoulders and head to relieve the tension that, without fail, always accompanies their sessions. Dick is about to reach for the Advil, when Raven lifts her hand and he stops – curious.

It might be energized, but it’s not her usual dark matter dancing around her fingertips. “I’ve had a Shiatsu Master show me how to get rid of those pesky neck pains…”

She’s teasing, on one hand.

And on the other--  
  
Damian nods.

_He’s never seen him fall asleep this fast after a correctional intervention._

 

***

 

Roth comes down with a fever out of nowhere.

It’s June when it happens and even though he wants to chalk it up to hay-fever, he cannot remember her growing equally sick this time last year. He looks to Grayson but it appears that even he is stumped with Roth’s immune system’s failures. Twice this year already when, really, it usually takes _demons_ a lot more than cold wind to get sick, or whatever else it is this time.

Unlike winter however, Roth proves uncooperative, which is disconcerting on a few levels. One – because she locks herself away, two – because one implies that she knows what is going on and still locking them out (literally), and three – because it takes longer this way.

Damian has never prided himself in patience outside of work, and a week later, when Roth will still not allow their presence in her room even for the broth that Grayson cooks especially for her, he finds the end of said patience. They return with their posteriors soundly handed to them by _Wizard_ – which could have easily been prevented by Roth’s presence – and while Damian has long since grown out of putting the blame on people, he’s fed up.

Fed up with sleeping in his nest alone, with having to watch Grayson’s deprecating self-worth every time the door closes in his face, with _not knowing_.

He breaks his own streak of stubbornness that night and, instead of retreating to his own nest, makes camp on the cold and empty couch in the living room. It’s not technically supposed to be an invite to join; he just needs to collect his thoughts properly and recently the perfect place for that has become the living room.

Where Roth would meditate.

Where he would sharpen and polish his weapons.

Where Grayson would occupy the plush carpet for an hour or two of yoga.

He’s not counting on anybody else but the comfort of Roth’s throw and his own thoughts, but Grayson must see him some time around three in the night because the cushioning dips suspiciously before there’s a warm presence at his back and then quiet again.

Damian turns about half an hour later, when Grayson’s breathing has evened out and his wings are cradling Damian partially closer to him; he glares into the darkness as he turns over a theory he has not yet considered in totality – mostly because Roth is so… _human_. It is almost barbaric to think that something like that should happen to her on a semi-regular basis as well as due to her genetics.

But then…

One doesn’t always have the freedom to choose in the lottery of life.

 

-

 

The ambush he orchestrates would not under normal circumstances be of necessity, but Roth proves to be most cunning even under duress, which is why Damian cannot afford to give even an inch.

Therefore the moment he hears even the quietest of footsteps in the hallway the next day, he is up in practically a flash. Grayson is far too tired to even attempt lucidity, which is why Damian is more than glad to let him snuggle back under the covers once he’s extricated himself from the gentle fold of the black plumage and – when he detects Roth watching them in the reflection of the oven – even goes as far as to cover his partner up in a show of delicacy that is only barely a charade.

Their kitchen is tiny in width but great in length, which is why, upon stepping into the room from the living room, he is almost pressed up against Roth’s back – there is maybe the length of half an arm between them; it is ideal.

Except for the moment he executes his plan and dares to touch the very tips of his fingers to the protrusions on her back – he meets _nothing_ and then, before he can even properly compute it, he finds himself grunting at the weapons digging into his back where his titanium-aviators do not. The sensation is accompanied by his head knocking against hard plaster and Roth’s shocked face. When he opens his eyes, still sitting on the floor, Grayson’s alarmed face is the only thing he sees – Roth has fled the premises.

 

-

 

Damian, once he’s up and standing, orders Grayson to assemble an emergency replacement team that he knows their partner has in store, before he zooms out of the door with half a plan in mind. While Blüdhaven is not exactly large, it should have taken Damian a whole longer than the 90 minutes it does take him, speeding by three of the five pharmacies and two of the six grocery stores in a quest to procure the supplies that his scrambled brain keeps rearranging on a mental list.

He doesn’t know how this affects a human body, remembers only the pained whimpers of Goliath – and if the red furry giant couldn’t take it without pain then he imagines Roth suffers at least doubly so.

“ _Why_ are you so hectic?”—Grayson demands to know when Damian returns. Grayson’s wings dither between curious and ruffled, while Damian’s hair is windswept and his face is flushed because Allah forbid he actually carry a helmet while riding through town at neck-breaking speed – like a bat out of hell one might say. His backpack is filled to the brim with easily digestible, healthy foods that they haven’t had the time to stock up on yet, as well as canned goods, milk, tea, and the pharmaceutical provisions.

His heart is a little restless and he wonders if maybe Roth’s hit hasn’t been a tad bit too hard – if maybe his head had taken more damage than he thought, but a quick check of his current physicals leaves him to conclude that it must have been the race he’s just finished.

“I figured it out.”—he says simply, voice gravely and it occurs to him that he hasn’t had his coffee yet but when Roth storms out of her room, dressed in one of Grayson’s dark-blue shirts that is too large on her as opposed to the white one she’s worn earlier, he interrupts his explanatory session in favour of holding her hair as she empties the meagre contents of her stomach into the porcelain of their toilet.

 

-

 

She’s feverish, but her skin is still white and clammy contrary to the red he’s seen her in before – that he knows. He remembers it from the last time he’d seen her try to expel her insides.

Grayson is quiet when Damian forces Roth to accept his assistance and for some reason the nth time seems to be the charm, or it could just be that the process is finally catching up with her and she cannot find it in herself any longer to actually fight against his support.

When they pass the backpack he has unceremoniously dropped upon Roth’s entrance, he snatches it up without actually letting go of the woman, who is wobbly on her feet at best and glues herself to his side like a wet limpet. He motions for Grayson to follow without having said a word yet. He’s not certain Roth could take it right now.

But when they finally get into Roth’s room, Damian sits her down on her nest, brushing sweat-dripping bangs out of her face even as he undoes the hectically adjusted restraints he’s thrown over his shirt. He’s not certain she’ll remember this kindness, or his advances, and it is wrong, but this gives him security in taking his liberties with touching her and his wings sing softly when they drop free.

“ _ʿ_ _Azīza_ , you should have told us.”—he chides her gently, reaching for the backpack easily and finding the sterile wet towels he’s bought extra for her.

She leans into the cool touch of it against her temple. “Say’n’ wha’?”—she warbles a reply, glassy eyes barely locking on to him. “Help ‘m moultin’?”

The comment is accompanied by a heavy twitch of her solar plexus that makes Damian move out of the danger zone with a smooth, practiced switch of his knees in a _Shikko_ that would have made his mother proud.

He clicks his tongue when he pushes the cold swipe into Roth’s neck, brushing her hair aside when she groans and lowers her head to her knees. “I’ve told you I know your kind, _jawhara_. You could have spared all of us a lot of pain.”

She sighs when he retracts his hand, but returns with a cool-pack that Grayson has found in his backpack and properly wrapped into a towel this time; she damn near slips into his arms when he applies it.

“Help.”—she mutters against his throat then, quietly and drily and he wonders when she has last managed to drink something and keep it down – his wings only hesitate so much before he enfolds her in a partial, protective hug. “I’m moulting.”

 

-

 

Goliath had been a revelation on many fronts.

Damian learned that while the meta-humans had found a way into the human world, there were beings that went even beyond that; things that were supernatural. Talia learned that her son had a weakness, that he had a heart for lost critters – but she also learned that he had the ability to see potential where others could not.

With his new friend came a new plethora of studies: scrolls that had been deemed bogus due to their suspicious dating or even their supposed languages (not to mention the wisdom within them was usually laughed at before the papers were burned during cold nights). Damian found them, read them, and looked to see how much of it was indeed applicable.

And then came the first moulting.

Damian had, by then, not yet read about the semi-regular process that most demon-species went through while in a phase of fertility – which ranged from rather early on to pretty damn late in their lives for most kinds – and was understandably upset when he realized that his friend’s wings were failing.

Talia meant to execute him. The younger al Ghul heir thought more along the lines of fabricating aviators similar to his own.

As it turned out, the problem solved itself and within a week, Goliath sported most noble wings, double the size they’d been before. Which is how Damian learned that his friend sometimes shed his leather-wings to sprout new ones; and in hindsight, it made some kind of sense, given the fact that demonic wings could not grow like plumage could and therefore not adapt as easily to a still growing body.

This knowledge is of unexpected service, when Roth conks out for the next week and Grayson is left with only unconscious flashes of images sent through a psychic link for answers to questions he can barely formulate and Damian at his side with additional pointers.

 

-

 

They make it by some grace.

Once Grayson is told what exactly is going on, there is no stopping his Mother Hen Mode – Drake had titled it and he won the rooftop race so this is the name the Robins had to stick with.

When the first skeletal protrusions emerge from Roth’s abused back, Grayson soothes her with lilting lullabies and gentle kisses that he presses to her forehead, preserving as much of her virtue as possible by wrapping her favourite throw around her front and keeping it there, while Damian gently applies antiseptic salve and towel-wrapped cool-packs to her inflamed shoulder blades.

Her fever goes down from worrying degrees, though she still stays out of it most of the time due to what Damian and Grayson believe to be a pain-induced coma. It’s not unheard of, after all, that the human body would give in to oblivion rather than unnecessarily suffer immense pain – that is what a pain barrier is for after all.

_Bats have a notorious problem with it; but that isn’t_ _n_ _ews either. Pennyworth has knock-out plans for each and every one of them._

Grayson hooks her up on an impeccable IV that screams of Pennyworth’s tutelage and they don’t even think about sleeping anywhere else but on a measly futon in Roth’s room, only ever three steps away from her.

This comes in handy more often than they can count.

Roth throws up a lot more than she manages to actually ingest – black tar that smells like sulphur and sometimes looks like it’s glaring at him with ruby red eyes. Grayson doesn’t nag him when he finds him burning it in an old oil barrel in the middle of the night by the docks a few days after the ordeal.

She screams her throat raw during the third and fourth day, on which they mark the most growth, bone stretching like spidery legs from her back in an eerie facsimile of a depiction of the _Reaper_ Damian had once come across during his time at Kabul. Day five they watch in stunned silence as the dark matter pools around her finished skeleton-wings, and fills in what will be wing soon while Roth herself is basically out for the count.

Damian has never seen it on another demon before – _Goliath worked differently_ – and Grayson had never seen it before at all, but they still dutifully cool her upset shoulder blades and rub the open wounds with antiseptic.

 

***

 

She wakes up ensconced in warmth and, for a moment, burrows deeper into the pillow she has clutched to her front, taking a moment to congratulate herself for not dying this time either – not that she would, probably, but it always feels like she’s going to. Her back still feels a little tender, but it is way better than she anticipated.

Carefully she opens her eyes, tries to take in the state of her room and the damage she might have wrought – but she is met with white fabric instead.

 

-

 

“You’re awake.”—he rumbles softly when he notices her stirring in his arms. He’s tired and he has no concept of time, but the sun seems to be setting outside and Grayson’s emergency heroes haven’t phoned yet to complain, so he guesses they’re still somewhat good.

Which is why he gently shuffles closer to her, meeting Grayson’s hand over her clothed hip and pressing a tired kiss to her forehead.

“Go back to sleep, _ya rouhi_. You need the strength. And we could use the rest.”—he mumbles it against her forehead and his addled brain doesn’t even catch up on how free he is with her while she is _awake_ , but when she sighs and pulls her throw further over her shoulder, he supposes he’s won.

 

-

 

Damian doesn’t even notice the cocoon that Raven creates: the leathery wings that spread around them and pull them even closer to her soft person. She looks damnably small between the two of them, and if it weren’t for her aviators encasing them even as Damian’s mechanic springs stretch partially in his sleep, and even though Dick’s own wings always seem to have a mind of their own during his slumber, he’s not certain she wouldn’t drown in their body mass.

He watches Damian’s _Cuckoo_ rumble Raven back into sleep, flexes his fingers under his when their hands cross over her hip to twine them with the long, rough digits of the younger man, and observes when their woman tucks her head under Damian’s chin and sighs, slipping back under right along Damian’s side.

_Their woman…_

A part of him wants to correct the mistake, but when Raven’s wings pull him into the literal fold and he shuffles close enough to touch his nose to the back of her head where her hair is shorn short, he can reach for Damian’s hip too and his fingers stray before he can remember giving the command to move.

It comes to him then that… it wouldn’t be too absurd, would it?

They’ve long but passed _friendly interactions_ – even for the blurred standards of the world of heroism and vigilantism. They sleep in the same bed most nights, they _know_ each other in a way that many other people don’t, they are there for each other when even family can’t help and really… he knows what Damian is saying to Raven. He’s not _proficient_ in Arabic, but he’s versed enough to understand the gist of it. …It’s also nothing he hasn’t whispered to either of them on his sleepless nights when all he can do is lie awake and watch them.

So, no. It’s not too absurd to want them as Flock, right?

They are halfway there either way…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I simply _love_ Damian with Goliath like... God, so much!!!! (also: all the arabic endearments :3)


	14. Union

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I want to be every lever you pull/ And all the showers that shower you_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLOOOOOO YOU BEAUTIFUL PEEEEEOOOOPPLLLLEEEEEE!!!! Summer is over (has been for some time, agreed) and we're back on track with Wings :) So happy to share with you this new chapter, betaed, as ever, by [BelaBelissima](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Bela_Nightshade/pseuds/BelaBellissima) (yes, it's still _our_ Bela, just with a new name) and I'm so happy that we managed to overcome the summer-break-pause lest the project somehow fall apart. But here it is, ladies and gentlemen, the next chapter, after a long time of waiting. Please leave comments, we do love them! :D

+++

 

The revelation that he wants to court the both of them into becoming his Flock isn’t as much of a shock as he had always expected it to be whenever he thought about settling down one day. His fancy for them goes way beyond _liking_ and he relishes in the small touches he manages to get in over the next few weeks, in them sleeping on the couch together again in a heap of leather, metal, and feathers.

But the thing is, while he would love to woo the both of them… Mating habits, much as Nesting, has never been much of a topic with either the Caravan or with Bruce. Which brings Dick to his current situation.

Because he has a Plan.

A capital-P-plan.

It has three stages with detailed steps to each stage and the ultimate goal is having both Raven as well as Damian as his Flock. He doesn’t think that this is a long stretch given that both are partial to each other and him – if he can read their bodies, wings and progressing history at all. He would be severely surprised if Damian were to opt out after cooing at Raven in his mother-tongue whenever he has the chance. _Dick isn’t fluent, but he gets the gist._

As it stands, he honestly considers _Raven_ to be the toughest nut to crack.

With what he knows of her relationships, there is the distinct possibility that she is not inclined to people in the biblical sense – which in and of itself would not stop Dick from pursuing her for a Flock with Damian and him, but it might make her a challenge to approach. Mostly because that would mean he might need to find a way with words.

And Dick… has always been more of a tactile bird.

Plus, he doesn’t want her to get the wrong message – he’s not after her for the physical aspects of a union, despite the fact that she has a wonderful body and he would gladly dedicate days to just learning her. He remembers how beautifully she reacted during _that_ mission, but he also knows that there is a difference between being physical with each other undercover during a mission and _being physical_ with each other.

He sighs deeply from his lungs, lets his head drop consciously to his chest, and relaxes the arches of his wings as he closes his eyes in an effort to regain his train of thought.

The fact remains that no matter what either of his partners still have up their sleeves – and he doesn’t doubt that there are still _things_ that both have yet to confess to – he wants them. All that he can have with and of them he would like, and if they are so inclined, he would wish for nothing more than to throw his very self at their feet.

 _Del_ give him strength, this is going to be one hell of a ride.

 

-

 

Because he already is very affectionate with the world, Dick _narrows it down_.

The people around him are still treated to his almost patented bear/octopus hugs and he loves slinging his arms and wings around the shoulders of his friends.

But he starts to keep the wrap-around-the-hips tucked away for _his two_.

He also leaves the faces of other’s alone; he doesn’t touch his fingers or feathers to noses or ears or cheeks. Exceptions for this rule is immediate family – to which he, too, counts Wally – and individuals up to ten years old, because you cannot honestly entrust him with Lian and not expect to have some kind of mess. When the young girl stays with them for an extended period of time, both Damian and Raven go as far as to _decree_ this.

Dick, in his maturity, promptly bops both their noses – complete with sound that has his former teammates’ daughter excitedly applaud – and lets them know that such aggression would not stand, because the dude minds.

_Raven surprises him when she chortles at the reference._

When Koriand’r and Roy come back to Earth and she takes him on a shopping trip, he carefully extracts his fingers from where they’re intertwined with hers – he holds her hand, because they have done that since forever, but the fingers…

Fingers are a thing for the night-time now – when Raven’s head is pillowed on his chest and her legs tangle with Damian’s over and under his, when their wings fold and cradle each other over and under and around them, when one of Damian’s arms wraps possessively around his midsection to cradle Raven’s slender appendages or link them with Dick’s.

And despite the fact that he doesn’t talk to Kori about his latest decision, about the discovery that even the heart of a migrating bird could be _tied down_ , about his affection for both his teammates, she gives him the most beaming smile he’s ever seen as they watch Raven and Damian handle Lian a lot better than Roy would have given them credit for.

“Has your heart settled then?”—she asks quietly, and Dick would choke if there was something in his mouth or throat to do it on, but as it is all he can do is cough on the air that he swallows a bit too hastily and give her a slightly pained look, fighting the instinctive wilting his wings want to give in to.

“I’m obvious.”—he croaks when he manages to regain at least some semblance of his wits, wonders quietly how many others will know before _his two_ will finally catch on.

Kori shakes her head, one of Roy’s red feathers catching the sun in her fiery hair, gives him a sly look when she answers: “I was wondering why you deviated from our… tactile routine.”—she admits. “I have been looking for reasons all day long.”

Roy comes towards them, Lian left with both Damian and Raven who are busy blowing raspberries on the stomach of the squealing four-year-old. “Kori, love, I swear to god if we don’t leave soon we’re going to be short a daughter.”

Dick watches the happy smile that she directs at his friend, notices how her mere presence softens the edges around _Arsenal_ and finds his eyes trailing back to _his two_ – currently entertaining a giggling Lian with what appears to be Counting Rhymes on the other side of the roof.

“He confess yet?”—Roy’s voice tears him out of his dreamland and he turns his head, finds himself at the mercy of two green-eyed looks that are all-knowing. Dick doesn’t even try to mask his smile.

“Kori, you _liar_.”—he teases her. “If Roy has noticed then I’ve _got_ to be obvious.”

His friend flushes, wings fluffing comically in indignation. Roy sputters and tries to defend himself, but even Star concedes the point to him by calmingly patting Roy’s lower arm. “I’m sorry, My Sun.”—she apologizes, before turning back to Dick.

“I’m happy for you.”—she finally says, eyes turning back to the trio, still giggling over rhymes and apparently Damian’s hair. “It has been long since I’ve last seen Friend Raven’s face assume such serenity.”

In the corner of his eyes, he sees Roy’s hand gently land on her shoulder – squeezing and giving him a mischievous smirk. “Yeah. Can’t remember the Demon Spawn ever being _happy_ about something else but killin’.”

He’s teasing, of course but—

Dick remembers those days.

And when he looks back to _his two_ , he can’t quite say that he misses them.

 

-

 

The next step in his plan is to create new rituals that involve a) only _his two_ and b) a lot of physical proximity that will hopefully – meaning: by some magical means he hasn’t yet figured out – translate into intimacy. Dick has some difficulty with this, because they are already sharing their sleeping space and distance is very hard to create when affectionately squeezed together on the couch. For a few days there is a blockade in his usually vast and flexible mind that tells him that one cannot be quite closer than this.

However, it is not mere physical proximity that he means to promote, and while sleeping huddled close in their nest, as well as now being able to be relatively liberal with their bodies around each other, does create a certain nearness… it’s not what Dick wants.

In this case he wants a lot more.

Incidentally, and quite accidentally too, _his two_ solve this particular problem for him.

Damian is preparing a batch of Turkish Coffee for Raven in their rather small kitchen, reciting The Highwayman – if Dick isn’t too far off with his estimation – while Raven is battling her wily hair when he happens upon them about three days into his mulling the problem over.

He’s known of their tradition following Raven’s worse nights for some time now, but has out of respect never intruded, but when Raven doesn’t seem to be calming down any time soon, wings rippling impatiently under her shirt, fingers agitatedly combing through knotted strands that have gotten longer than he’s seen them in a while, Dick steps in without much thought to it.

“ _He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;_ ”—Carefully batting away her fingers and even more cautious to wrap her in a partial wing-hug, Dick sinks his own digits into the mass of half-dry locks that is Raven’s hair at this very moment. Neither she nor Damian give him any indication that he might be intruding, which he takes as a ‘go ahead’.

“ _And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon, /When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,_ ” _—_ she doesn’t stop him when he starts to part her hair in big portions first, before starting in on the partitions and carding his fingers through them, one by one, teasing the knots and tangles apart. It feels surprisingly similar to combing feathers.

He can feel her shoulders drop under his ministrations and it comes to him that, when Damian puts her cup of coffee in front of her and continues to fill the room with the croon of his Cuckoo, this is exactly what he has been looking to create. This _shift_ in atmosphere, from mere camaraderie combined with physical closeness to affectionate intimacy.

“ _A red-coat troop came marching— /Marching— marching— /King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door_.”—Dick enjoys the pocket of secrecy and togetherness around them, loses himself in the feeling of Raven’s soft tresses gliding through his fingers and thus feels no shame about taking his sweet time in making certain that the ink-coloured spill of her hair tumbles over her shoulders in the usual beautiful, gentle waves.

By then an hour has passed and Damian is still with them, thumbing through one of Alfred’s copies of poetry that the old Falcon has left with pretty much every _Robin_ at some point. Dick himself is rather fond of Shakespeare’s gratuitous usage of swears and allusions to sex; Tim has been gifted with tomes upon tomes of Haiku that Dick could still not wrap his mind around, and Jason will forever be a fervent devotee to The Greeks (ironically, Odysseus’ Tale has always been a favourite).

When Dick’s fingers lose themselves in Raven’s hair from then on, sometimes to tease the strands apart, sometimes to wrangle them into outlandish styles and call it a day, Raven does not find it in herself to protest, and Damian always – albeit almost reluctantly sometimes – finds himself in a position of hair-band-brush-comb-assistant.

 

-

 

With Raven having been Step 2 of Stage 1 – and having successfully cleared his entrance into said Step so that he is firmly ensconced in it – Dick turns to Step 3 of 4 in the completion of Stage 1.

 _Damian_.

While, technically, he has more history with Damian with regards to physical closeness, getting the younger man to open up or to accept the opening up of other people around him has always been a challenge.

It is definitely one that Dick took on with much gusto, but they are still in the process of getting Damian used to these things – and Dick has certainly never really tried touching Damian’s hair, because the head… was a sensitive topic for vigilantes and heroes. Allowing somebody to come close to you was one thing, but tolerating their hands in a veritable blind spot, and one so vulnerable at that, was another thing entirely.

Dick is relatively certain that if Raven hadn’t had a bad night three days into the execution of his Plan, he would still be trying to find a point of access.

But—

Damian.

They have gotten better about this whole shebang, so Dick thinks that maybe he could go straight for the kill, which is what he does after a training session – _try_ that is. However, because Damian has been raised by Assassins and The Bat (and Dick himself…), he can foresee the supposed strike Dick wants to land to the back of his head and thus the acrobat finds his arse thrown to the mats, wrist smarting from the abrupt twist it has suffered.

“Are we done, Grayson? I want to _shower_.”

Dick can’t help but nod; he finds himself at strange odds with the unexpected failure as he watches Damian retreat to the showers, titanium-alloy glinting and reflecting in the warm lights Dick and Damian prefer to Bruce’s harsh Neon.

He has a set-back.

He would not be Dick Grayson if he allowed for this to deter him.

So he doesn’t let it.

After patrol he will try to tangle his fingers in the slightly longer hair on top of Damian’s back-head, deal with the stinging slap he receives to his wrist and try again in the morning – _after_ _their first cup of coffee, he’s not suicidal, thankyouverymuch_ – and after their spars, sometimes just for the heck of it. Damian doesn’t question this new fascination with his hair and instead takes it in stride, chalking it up to Dick’s neediness with regards to physical contact.

Touching his hand to Damian’s hair becomes something of a game between the two of them. A game that Raven will sometimes watch with a small smile from the couch where she has perched a book on her knees, observing them over the rim of the pages as they roll over the thick carpets; Damian’s vitriol is more of a habit than meant for injury and Dick’s fingers are always nimble and ready to strike.

Step 3 of Stage 1 is not a success according to plan, but Dick knows how to adapt and therefore it is not entirely a failure.

 

-

 

If he narrows down his physical interactions with other people, he certainly ups the ante when it comes to his two. Because like hell is he going to stop at braiding hair or make-believe-wrestles; oh no.

He’s been thinking about his next advance for some time now – when he’s playing with Raven’s hair, when she sits next to him and magics around on another puzzle, when he listens to Damian’s Stradivarius, when he watches the two of them go up against each other in the training room – but he simply cannot seem to find the right way to introduce Step 4 of Stage 1.

Maybe, he concedes one evening as he lies ensconced between the two of them, it’s simply too far a step to bridge yet.

Raven and Damian are both conked out on him, shielding him like they usually do – it might be directly related to the fact that they have both managed to somehow acquire rather damaging injuries during their patrol-run-ins with Blüdhaven’s Worst of the Worst. Raven’s head is pillowed on his right shoulder, her wing spanning over the rest of the couch like an overgrown umbrella, protecting them from the glinting lights of Blüdhaven at her back. His hand sifts gently through her locks even though he can feel her breathing softly next to him – _onto him._ Damian’s forehead is pressed carefully against his left shoulder, his knees tucked in until his shins and the length of both his arms heavy against his own arm, hands cautiously clasped, wings in a state of semi-alertness.

Dick doesn’t think when the man that has once been his brother shifts, breath hitching when the new position aggravates a delicate spot, and putshis lips to the scrunched-up forehead in a soothing caress – only when he draws back does it come to him that… he just did that.

The hindbrain panics quietly, even as Dick moves quietly to repeat the motion on Raven’s forehead.

He has been thinking of this recently, excessively to be honest, but for some reason his body has betrayed him on this – or maybe it has helped things along when Dick himself would have dallied longer than necessary, ultimately talking himself out of it. His heart is threatening to grow wings of its own, burst through his ribcage and tear itself into two different directions to sink into the chests of the two at his sides.

Thus, the first time it happens, it’s actually an accident, but because most nerves rear their ugly little shit-heads during or before said initial first, Dick’s hesitation barrier disappears.

He greets Raven with a peck to her forehead in the morning, when he is barely awake, and she transfers his coffee-mug gently into his hands – _Gestana,_ _mîndrica_ – and turns his lips to Damian’s temple when he sits down next to the young man, sun rising in their backs (surprisingly this is not a thing that the younger man tries to evade).

When they suit up for patrol, he smooths his lips to Damian’s forehead as if in passing while going over the last details for the surveillance of the Italian Mafia the young man has planned tonight, and when they part, he slings an arm around Raven, putting his lips to her temple just before he topples backwards and releases his grapple.

The affections become common place; they find themselves strewn haphazardly into their day-to-day life, and even though Dick has still not managed to touch his fingers to the back of Damian’s head, he at the very least has this.

 

***

 

 _You have got to be kidding me_.

The revelation hits him in the middle of patrol and Damian has to actually take a moment on a rooftop to press his palm to his face through his gauntlets because _– what?_

At first he is almost certain that the stray thought is just that – a mere distraction, a passing idea that holds no credit at all. But, because he has been trained extensively and has always been told – by no matter what teacher – to consider _all_ the venues, he gives this one a try too and finds that it has credit.

And that just… _how?_

Grayson is flirting with them.

The man has not been ‘away for a night’ in months now, the banter between Oracle and him has somehow emptied of all the physical tension that has been tangible on some nights and while he still _does_ fall around the neck of every one of his friends, he is different about it. Damian recognizes now that he has been saving certain things for _them_.

Like the most recent – _baffling_ – development in the form of kisses.

He has consulted West about the newest addition to Grayson’s tactile advances and has spent fifteen minutes of the call being laughed at. Seeing as this is not an experience he has want to repeat, he has kept the rest of Grayson’s former team-mates in the dark as to the most recent happenings, even though Drake and Todd might have had insights that Damian would have valued.

Instead, he has thought this over himself.

And the solution has, literally, just presented itself to him out of nowhere, despite the fact that it sounds ludicrous at first.

Then again…

It’s not, is it?

Damian shoots his grapple on automatic, sails through the street and hauls himself up and over onto the next rooftop, body on instinct, while his mind pursues this new line of thought to the very last consequence.

The facts are these: He has been calling Roth – _Raven_ – every endearment under the sun (in his native tongue because saying it in English sounds _wrong_ ). He likes her; he likes Grayson. He has known this for some time now, and he would have attempted to court them, when he was certain that the advances would be welcome – in the future.

Obviously, however, _Richard_ is a much more forward kind of bird and, being unsurprisingly less patient than Damian himself, is more willing to take risks in this department sooner than the younger man is.

Admittedly, it is not a disadvantage in this case, and when Grayson reaches for him the next morning over their second cup of coffee, Damian makes the conscious decision to actually lean into the touch, wings opening up on his back, gliding up against the soft down of Richard’s. The sensation of the hand is strange at first; the mended skin of his spinal transplant is the most tender in his neck – and also highly vulnerable – but Richard’s fingers span carefully over his skull, even as he feels the man’s surprise in the twitch of his appendages. He recovers quickly, rests his palm over his seventh vertebrae as the long, slender digits curl gently into his hair, tug a little on the strands and then meld around his bone structure in a soft cup.

He thinks he feels a sigh escape the man next to him, ink-black wings lowering against his own, caressing, as if in relaxation and maybe stretching just a tiny bit into Raven’s direction. Damian thinks she notices, judged by the way that she _maybe_ dithers, just a little, into their direction but not entirely into the reach of Richard’s wingspan; she remains just outside of it.

And, as wayward as it may be, Richard’s courting rituals might just be the right idea, because Damian cannot un-see the way Raven teeters and sways towards them as if pulled into their gravitational orbit every time Damian allows Richard’s touch. He takes to allowing the tips of his aviators to gently drift upwards just the slightest – just… halfway – and stretch into her general direction.

It’s a quiet kind of invitation that Richard’s wings unconsciously copy and that he knows Raven receives loud and clear by the way that her body talks to him. Damian loosens just this much more around the two of them, pushes into Richard’s hands with quiet, aborted, but encouraging little motions, joins the older man readily and without complaint when he lies down on the couch, and stops wearing his overly-large shirts – always within Raven’s field of vision.

They are all three well aware that what the two men are really waiting for is Raven herself.

 

***

 

Raven knows that morning, when Damian first pushes into Dick’s hand. She’s had her suspicions, certainly, because while Dick could be as emotionally constipated as the best of the Bat-Brood – _Bluejay_ has had some interesting accounts to share on that particular Flock-trait – he is as subtle as a brick when broadcasting personal feelings.

She has seen more than enough realities to be able to prove this.

That morning it just all adds up.

The fact that his fingers were not twined with Star’s when they came back from their shopping trip – a traditional show of affection that she immediately noticed being altered – or that he stopped showering people with certain tells to his usual ardour around those he considered close to him… The fact that he has started to play with _her_ hair.

Raven has not quite travelled far enough yet to even scratch at the surface of Romani tradition; mostly because she is – and always will be – _gaži_ _,_ and therefore not worthy of being knowledgeable of the entire rule-set and traditions of the Rom people, no matter what tribe she found in whatever reality. But the few realities she has seen have taught her that hair had a particularly elevated position in the Romani custom.

Long, wild, thick hair was a sign of good fortune for an individual, and God help those that dared to cut it.

It was generally deemed impolite to comb through the hair of another without having been invited to – and for a man to be found carding his fingers through the locks of a woman, or vice versa, could very well be considered a declaration of romantic interest. There are hypotheses all around the earth that the combing of feathers had gained it’s intimate note from the way that Rom people treated the combing of hair.

She’s been thinking that _maybe_ Dick isn’t quite aware of what he is doing, thinking that maybe she is simply reading too much into it (Richard hadn’t spent enough years with his original Flock to fully pick up on their traditions after all), thinking that maybe there was something else that would blind-side her if she didn’t find it soon.

That particular morning all these doubts vanish.

Damian leans into Dick’s touch and it’s the almost unanimous yet subconscious movement of their wings that finally makes it click in her overwrought mind.

Richard has been _wooing_ them.

And Damian was neither opposed – nor was he about to exclude her.

Raven does not know how to deal with this.

 

-

 

When in doubt, Raven likes to re-enact the failsafe one of her favourite book heroines and patronizes the library in an epic quest for _answers_.

If she would have had the time, she would have made way for the _In-Between_ and look for her _Bluejay_ _,_ but finding him could take months because contrary to the other souls there, he is too curious for his own sake and continuously takes to wandering, no matter what trouble he gets in. She no longer has a sufficient amount of appendages to count the many times that her _Bluejay_ has managed to release a soul into the right direction – but it makes it hard to pinpoint him. He is so unsteady in his roaming that not even _scrying_ could help her locate him. She knows – she’s tried.

Thus the books in this reality will have to do.

Not, admittedly, that they tell her anything new.

She has observed what she re-reads in the pages of encyclopaedias and even _Self-Help-Books_ only give her vague replies to her current predicament – not nearly enough to base an adequate response on.

But then, books could only be midwives to their readers – Hermann Bahr said that once and her _Bluejay_ had loved to quote him on those occasions when they crossed paths during Raven’s quests for obscure-book-wisdom. So, when she exits the library that evening, she doesn’t feel like she has learned anything new.

While the books she has perused have fortified her understanding of her situation, have shown her from another angle just what is happening, she does not find herself any closer to a solution – is still uncertain on how to respond to the situation in a manner that would a) allow for more time to think on the matter but b) convey her curiosity (she’s not certain if it is _interest_ yet; she doesn’t know if she can dare to make it _intent_ _,_ but curiosity is a good place to start).

 

-

 

It takes time.

These things always do.

Raven watches as the two of them roll over the carpet, play-wrestling; she combs through Dick’s feathers, leaning against Damian’s shoulder; she spars with Damian while Dick watches; she flies with them on New Moons – wings spanning far and wide over the dark night sky; she – finally – settles on a uniform for this reality – for Blüdhaven – with enough white to encourage Dick calling her _Crane_ in the field and for Damian to leave his origami in hidden places; she goes to sleep wrapped in their scents of Cedar and Patchouli and she is the first to stand up, preparing the Colombian on autopilot.

There have been so many realities when Raven has been _so close_ to either one of them.

She has been with Robin during their Teen Titan days in several realities; before Trigon came along and swept her up – used her body as a vessel until it had to give in and she vanished into dust – and it has been both Dick as well as Damian.

There was another dimension in which she was the cause for the creation of the Teen Titans, hoping to stop her father but, in the end and no small involvement of Batman himself, failed nevertheless.

In one reality they were the Teen Tyrants and boy was _that_ a cluster-fuck but she was with Robin then… before the Teen Titans arrived to put an end to their villainous troupe.

Raven has manipulated Dick into kissing her in one reality, but it hurt to even watch it happen – knowing that this Richard was destined to be with Koriand’r.

Most recently – and therefore freshest in her mind – Raven has visited the very reality in which Richard had a child with Kori; and while Raven loved her niece, it hurt just the slightest, watching Mar’i become Damian’s ( _everything_ ).

But this is _her_ reality. It’s the one she’s been born into; the one reality in which humans evolved into possessing functional wings – the one universe that she, as a sentient, individual being, would call _the original_ ; because to her it is. And while she may have been betrayed, stabbed in the back and steam-rolled in any other reality, this need not be true for this dimension. For her initial reality.

Therefore, it’s not like she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Not exactly.

Naturally there is apprehension as she edges closer to the inviting wing-tips that reach for her whenever the two men twine around each other in their waking hours – as well as their resting ones, but those feel like cheating for some reason – and it sits in the pit of her stomach. A part of her compares it almost automatically to the sulphur and the acid that her demon is familiar with, but it is much more than that. It is better in such ways that it exhilarates her, makes her heart fly away in her chest, and her lips spread in a clandestine smile that she hides behind the wide collar of her new uniform. She loves the sensation even when it makes her drunk.

And so she edges a little closer every time.

Millimetre by millimetre.

 

-

 

There are days when she almost closes the distance.

 

Her birthday.

 _Bluejay’s_ birthday.

 _Bluejay’s_ deathday (he was adamant about making it a thing).

The day of her brothers’ demise.

A’s birthday (she misses him).

 

It never feels right, because when she thinks about it – something she does quite frequently – she wants that day to be a celebration all on its own in the future; she wants it to stand on its own, proud and beautiful and glittering and shining without being overshadowed by some other event.

 

-

 

She _pushes_ into Dick’s hands, uses his long, still, fingers to comb her hair in a warped facsimile of a demented cat – twists her head this way and that, basking in the attention, in the affection, relishing in the simple sensation of his touch and the curious absence of her demoness.

It feels like it’s been years since she has last been able to enjoy this. It’s not – and rationally she knows this – but the palpable dichotomy between reality and imagination remains to make her desperate for his – their – physical nearness. Damian’s look of covetous jealousy-joy-want registers only on the edges of her consciousness but she feels the mass of his body close in and all she can think is _yes, yes, yes, closer, nearer, yes_.

For a second the two of them freeze around her and it’s the last thing she wants, but she forces her body to still as well – wonders for the fraction of a moment if this is wrong, if maybe she should not want this, fears that she is projecting (that she is _forcing them_ ).

But then there is Damian hesitantly pressing to her front, wings and arms winding around her hips, pressing closer until their bodies are flush, until her back touches Dick’s front and their hands meet around her middle and she sinks into Patchouli and Cedar, sinks into warmth and softness, closes her eyes as she presses her nose into Damian’s chest and her back into Dick’s.

One of her hands reaches up to curl around Damian’s neck, fingers spreading over the vertebral notch in his neck – the scar there – while the other hand steals down, winds around Dick’s forearm.

Her skin tingles in a warm rush and her world darkens with the ruffling and the gentle unsheathing of wings.

Raven sighs and sinks deeper into the embrace.

She shows the smile that spreads on her face (and doesn’t look back – this is a day worthy of celebration no doubt).

 _She s_ _hould have known that Ivy’s Pollen would react differently with the natural chemistry of her half-demon body._

 

-

 

She knows them well enough to deduce correctly who of the two of them leaves the traditional courting gift on her pillow – the Ruby _(protection from misfortune and bad health, promoter of love and open hearts, symbol of friendship and love, vitality, royalty 1_) throws beautiful specks of red, white, and dark over her walls and melds into the indigo of her soft, leather gauntlets when she palms it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

1� http://www.gemselect.com/other-info/gemstone-meanings.php


	15. Interlude - Raven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _She-she-she-she only ever-ver-ver-ver-ver wants to-to count-count her steps_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I'm so bad at getting back into this that it took me so long to post the chapter - Bela has been editing ever so dutifully and I was just... in such a slump. I'm going to make an effort to make the new chapters a weekly thing again, just please bear with me a little while longer. 
> 
> And while we're at it I want to thank all of you who are so interested in this story - thank you for sticking with us and thank you for keeping the comments up because they (in turn) remind me that I'm still not finished here. Thank you! 
> 
> Please enjoy this small chapter.

 

+++

 

Raven burrows deeper into Damian’s embrace. Being in the middle, for once, she feels like not standing up at all – despite the fact that she is awake, and would need to _do_ something soon in order to still her twitching limbs, she wants to make the most out of her current position.

Damian is at her back, nose touching the vertebral notch in her neck, warm air puffing at her skin; one of his arms serving as a neck-support while the other one is draped almost carefully over her hip, fingers twisting into Dick’s shirt. She wants to sink her nose into the hollow between Dick’s collarbones, but that would mean leaving the warm cocoon of breath on her neck and she doesn’t quite want to. So instead, she stretches her hand, cautiously, to rest the backs of her fingers against the skin there.

Dick doesn’t budge at first; hums unconsciously and contently instead and Raven closes her eyes for a little while longer.

 

-

 

Knowing the various realities around them like she does, Raven cannot help but draw parallels between _her two_ and their other versions – and there are plenty of those to go around.

Enough that she almost slips up now and then; though she has yet managed to keep her knowledge under wraps. She leads them astray with vague answers ( _Travelling_ ) when they dare wonder about her obscure knowledge aloud. It’s not often, but it happens at odd intervals.

Like when she sent The Celtic back to his proper time. 

Or when she managed to decipher Old Coptic.  
When she was in morose a state as Dick was on _Bluejay’s_ death-day.   
Even back when she originally begged off meeting this universe’s Bruce Wayne during a WE-function that would turn out to be the day of revelation for her… for _them_.

She is well aware that there will come a day when she will have to confess, when she will have to tell them about the many worlds and realities she has been to, when she will tell them their own tales – but she is not there yet.

It’s not a secret – not exactly, given that _her two_ are so suspicious already and neither of them are lacking the cerebral function to compute the gap of explanation that her mysterious answer leaves, but she does not have the strength yet to let them in on it.

And so, instead, she settles on the couch and watches them roll over their carpets in another play-brawl, cup of tea safely ensconced in her fingers and lets her mind drift.

 

-

 

They have a mission to conduct on Halloween, but despite this Raven doesn’t forgo the blue gladiola that she has Richard weave into her braided hair – he has become supremely skilled at twisting her strands to his volition and has a lot more patience than Raven herself would ever have had when dealing with her own locks.

Until the 2nd of November, she exchanges the gladiola only ever in the same colour, fingers the old, fallen petals of _jay blue_ fondly between her fingers and doesn’t lose a single word about the man she’s remembering.

When she finds Damian melding his long, dextrous fingers around a sugar-skull, she leans up to press her dry lips to the side of his neck in silent gratitude.

Neither of _her two_ know who she is thinking of; whom she is honouring with the flowers in her hair, but the mission blows over quietly, successfully, and Dick pulls them along to _The Gray Grounds_ and they build a small shrine for a nameless boy-man-child-ghost.

_Raven hasn’t found the strength to go looking for him in this world yet._

 

-

 

“I’m not going.”—she shakes her head, crosses her arms. “I know you’d like me to but I’m not going anywhere near him again.”

And it technically has nothing to do with the fact that last time she’s been in his near vicinity she’s been shot at. She can handle a few bullets. Just… not the man.

Damian shrugs as he pulls the straps of his knap-sack higher on his shoulder. “Can’t really make her, Richard.”—he concedes. “’s not like _I_ want to be going either.”

Raven doesn’t understand why Damian is going in the first place. Bruce Wayne has, after all, officially and very publicly disinherited and ridiculed him for a perceived genetic-weakness. Then again, Bruce is his father and Raven should know _all_ about complicated relationships to one’s father – and she knows Damian. He would have gone even if he weren’t a Wayne any longer. She knows that Dick goes to please, and honour, the man who has taken him in when he has had nothing.

And then, of course, there is the subject matter of the _bride_ who has not been mentioned by name even once since the announcement had reached the apartment by means of the _Blüdhaven Gazette_.

Richard looks like he wants to plead, one last time, but thinks better of it – bending, instead, to press his lips to her forehead and then her cheeks. “Take good care of yourself, Raven.”—he says by way of goodbye. “I’m looking forward to seeing you again in a few days.”

_Richard has never been any good at farewells – she kind of likes it._

She answers non-verbally, presses her own lips to his cheek, pushes her nose against his jaw and smiles softly when he parts from her with quiet steps making way for Damian to say his goodbyes.

“Do aim to not cause too much strife, _ya amar_.”—he says softly as his fingers dance into her hair, play with her locks. “I would dearly love to see you again unblemished.”

Raven smiles softly, leans into his touch. “Don’t punch your father in the nose.”—she chides gently. “He’s the only one you have and he’s generally not a bad person.”

It’s her who leans up to kiss him on the cheek, knows that he would never presume to be allowed such freedom with her body if she weren’t to initiate such contact. He responds in kind, just before he parts and joins Richard in the old factory-elevator.

_She leaves for yet another universe._

 


	16. Broken Wing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _How are the mighty fallen_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still not good-good with the updating and RL is taking some adaptation-skills right now, bear with me please  
> As usual, _Bela_ is a wonderful Beta and too good to be true, seriously (thank you for putting up with my sh*t, Bela!!!!)

 

 

+++

 

It’s Wally who gives him the idea – more so gives him a game-plan – because _Delořo_ forbid the Owl genetics don’t come through in any other way possible considering that the wings didn’t make it.

They meet up almost on accident at Bruce’s _JLA-wedding_ – because his bride-wife is the cleverest thing and well aware that any hero present during Brucie Wayne’s public wedding would cast a dubious light on them. Clark officiates and Dick finds himself amongst the first-men to Batman, along with Damian who carries the most stoic of faces he’s ever seen on the young man.

And that is counting the day that Bat-Cow slipped into slumber never to wake again.

“You’re totally tapping that,”—Wally greets him when, for a few moments, Damian leaves his side with Tim to brave the buffet. “Which is so uncool because I had my money on next summer.”

“Hello to you too, KF,”—Dick turns to him, nudges his head with the tips of his wings. “What are you talking about?”

Wally gives him a look that he easily identifies as unimpressed, never mind the white lenses of his new uniform. Barry has done a good job, leaving behind a respectable suit and cowl for the young man he knew was going to be his successor. It’s not the exact _Flash‑_ cowl after all, it’s something uniquely made for Wally.

_Dick wonders, sometimes, just how much Barry really did know about his future._

Wally gives him a small smile. “Been a while since someone’s called me that.”—he says fondly, arm going around Dick’s shoulder. “But seriously, are you or are you not tapping that?”—he asks, turning them in the direction Damian has disappeared to. _Blackbird’s_ suit is distinguishable to Dick, even in the mass of suits, capes and cowls around. “Be advised that your next answer might just cost me.”

He smiles, nudging Wally’s stomach with his elbow in a gentle admonishment. “No need to break out the pay-out-poll yet.”—he smirks a little self-consciously, wonders just how many ears are listening in on their current conversation (because as much as the Kryptonian is like an uncle to him, he does not want the corn-fed star of the world to tell his substitute father a thing just yet).

Wally’s smile broadens and his friend pumps the air in a victorious gesture. “Aw, yes. I knew you’d go for the Whole-In-One.”

The speedster is talking in riddles to him, but Dick has long learned to wait his friend out and let him explain himself. “You still waiting on the… last puzzle piece then?”

Wally knows more than he should sometimes. It can be a blessing sometimes, much as it is in this instance because he knows that his friend understands him even though he needn’t say a thing.

“Kinda.”—he shrugs, reaches for a glass of orange-juice – no alcohol when the celebration could be cut short due to an emergency any minute. “I mean… we got it figured out, mostly. It’s just…”

Dick is stuck on the traditions. Again. Always. 

It’s these moments in life when he wishes that he had either been around the Circus-Flock for a bit longer or around Bruce – he can never decide which would have been better for him when asking himself the question; he has come to the conclusion that either would have been good.

Had he remained with the circus crowd, he doesn’t doubt that he’d have gotten to know a nice, pretty _řomni_ or _sintajka_ and settled down with her. Had he learned more about this under Bruce’s tutelage no doubt he’d have ended up alone and miserable, but inexorably versed in various courting traditions – if only to manipulate the arts to his advantage.

Either way he would have a better idea of going about this in a culturally respectable, and therefore respected, fashion – no matter what culture it ended up being. As it stands, he is halfway this, halfway that. Not fish, not meat. He’s talking from experience when he says it sucks.

“What’s the hold up?”—Wally breaks his train of thought. “I mean… I’ve been looking for your feather on him all evening, but I figured with Daddy Bats around-“

Dick wants to punch him.   
And kiss him – because Wally is a genius.   
But mostly punch him – because boy can he run his mouth without thinking…

“And where exactly do I put a feather on someone with short hair and technically no wing to speak of?”—he returns quietly. He’s seriously curious because he’s thinking about it – Step 3, Stage 2 – but it’s… well, a little tricky when your ‘intended’ can’t reciprocate in kind or even wear the feather in the plumage as it is supposed to be.

Usually, if there is no plumage – there are a lot of _grounded_ folk mingling with winged ones, he’s grateful beyond words that the segregation on that particular front had let up ages ago – couples resort to wearing the feather in their hair. And it could work out for Raven… but Damian has taken to keeping his hair in a short buzz save for the top, where it’s longer. He’d call it an _undercut_ if Damian hadn’t already torn his head off about the description – verbally that is – and he doesn’t want to favour one by giving them what he cannot give the other.

“So make it something else.”—Wally shrugs, claps politely when Batman dips his new bride in her equally sombre costume to twirl around the floor a little. He hopes that the League is taking as many pictures as they can; the Caped Crusader will never smile this much on one day ever again (or at least: Dick doesn’t count on it).

“Like what?”—Dick asks, waves at Zatanna who passes them by, twirling Artemis around with a surprising level of skill in the leading position. “’s a bit early for rings, isn’t it?”

He must be imagining things when M’gann almost spits out her drink, but she’s talking to Gar so it might just be her would-be-brother’s sense of humour – they’ve always had a special understanding in that regard – and Clark’s laughter turns just _this_ side of hysterical for about a second.

His friend hears the implication behind the bravado, though, and gives him a smile that Dick likes to think is special between the two of them – it’s been there ever since he’d been Robin and met Kid Flash for the first time. “Maybe.”—the redhead concedes, “Look. I don’t really know what could be a suitable equivalent of a feather between you.”—he watches Wally’s mouth swallow around the word _three_ and is inherently thankful for the discretion his brother-from-another-mother can possess when it’s needed. “But I imagine it would have to be something… extraordinary.”

Through the lenses, their eyes meet and Dick wonders if he’s about to be shown a new side of Wally West – he’s realized maybe a tad too late that he’ll never quite cease learning about ‘his’ speedster – when he continues: “It’ll be something fitting your tradition, something that suitable for combat but at the same time just a smidgen visible; something with meaning to either of you. I think…”—he stops for a moment, eyes catching _someone_ across the room and his artificial wings droop a little in a perfect facsimile to veritable emotion – _Barry was a genius, bless his ever-loving hide and rest in peace_ – before returning his attention to Dick with a somewhat-but-not-entirely painted-on-smile.

“I think… you might want to write a grocery list.”

 

-

 

Bruce had taught him some things, psychological tricks to make the gathering of information smoother and less invasive, which is why Dick knows that presenting an idea to someone else is more likely to yield positive results when being done over food.

And since he’s been itching to take them out on a non-patrol evening either way…

“Are you certain this is a good idea?”—Damian asks him quietly, straightening the lapels of his immaculately pressed shirt, wings tucked away for the event. He gives him an unreadable look via the mirror. If Dick wanted to, he could decipher it, analyse it to the last non-existent-twitch at the corner of his brother’s left eye, but he doesn’t – because _not_ reading body language is a courtesy in their line of work that they afford team-members and those people that are _more_.

Thus he doesn’t read Damian and meditates regularly with Raven in order to discipline his mind and not automatically access their link in order to find answers to everything pertaining to her. If he’s honest, this behaviour has been an unconscious acquiescence of sorts since the very start.

“Are you saying it’s not?”—he retaliates with a question, looking up from where he’s seated on a low chair, tying the only pair of nice shoes he possesses. He can’t even tell how old they are, just that they are trustworthy, sturdy, whole, and Alfred-approved. The latter makes any other commentary on his foot-wear obsolete.

Damian rolls his eyes. “Do not put words in my mouth, Grayson.”—he snarks. “I was simply expressing my concern for tonight’s patrol and the state of the streets we are supposed to be watching.”

Dick refrains from pointing out that Damian feels, probably, just as nervous as he does if the sporadic movement under his shirt is anything to go by, and shrugs his shoulders in response. “I’ve called in support from Jason.”—he answers instead. “I have a few favours to cash in on and he said he’d bring Tim and Roy along, so I guess they’ll be just fine without us tonight.”

For a moment Damian’s mouth opens and it looks like he might want to object, but Dick can see Raven’s silhouette blocking out the setting sun in the corner of his eyes and turns his head to follow the other man’s line of vision.

Raven looks stunning.   
Comfortable in her own skin despite the fact that Dick cannot remember her ever having had the chance to wear a dress like this before. Then again, what _does_ he truly know about her _travels_? If he looks closer, there is even mascara on her lashes.

The change this attire brings on her is subtle but effective and when, for a few moments, neither Damian nor Dick speak – Raven’s lips quirk up the slightest amount.

“I am going to have to show off my wardrobe more often if I can get you to quit squabbling…”—she teases gently, closing in on them on – _ohmygod, are those…?_ – stiletto-heels that click softly with every step she takes.

“ _Ya hayati_.”—Damian greets her softly, bends down to press a kiss to her temple, as Dick stands, his own plumage curling around her shoulders. “You look radiant.”

Raven’s smile widens. “And you look dashing.”—she replies calmly, turning her head to give Dick a once over as well. “Both of you.”

It’s only when he reaches for her fingers that he notices the gleam of sapphire and pearl around her wrist and the gentle drape of a silver crane-pendant at the end of a longer chain around her neck. He hides his smile with a press of his lips to her fingertips – but he thinks that the happy-possessive-satisfied gleam that he can _feel_ in his entire being translates through his eyes either way.

 

-

 

He doesn’t quite know why the redhead across the room catches his eye so, but there is something familiar and alluring in the way that she moves without ever seeming to touch the floor. The low light catches in the sparkles of her dress and her feathers, tempting his eyes to follow her as she makes for the balcony, an elegant glass held between dainty fingers.

She is alone too and Dick stands, unthinkingly, to join her.   
The evening has been lacklustre until now it seems.

“Grayson.”—Damian’s harsh baritone interrupts him when he’s halfway out the door, eyes set on the lady at the far end of the terrace. “Where the hell are you going?”

Suppressing a sigh, he turns to the younger man, placid smile on his face – his brother has always had the misfortune of interrupting at the wrong moment. Even Bruce has had to find sneakier methods of _entertaining_ when the Demon Wing was at the manor. Dick can’t help but make a note of the younger’s apparent neediness; they’ll need to do something about it lest they want to become monks.

“I’m going to introduce myself, Dami.”—he says calmly, hoping that his answer explains his actions. He’s never quite certain just _where_ Damian stands in his evolution concerning relationships. For all he knows physical intimacy is still a novelty to the hatchling.

Damian’s eyes shutter in a way that makes Dick feel guilty for about a moment before his eyes catch the glint of red-and-shiny again and his resolve hardens – he _will_ introduce himself. “I’ll call Bruce, okay?”—he puts a comforting hand to the shoulder of the smaller man; there’s a dichotomy in his arm that feels, for a moment, as if he’s reaching higher than his eyes tell him he is, but he dismisses it for the obvious visual negation to that sensation.

He turns away.

 

***

 

“You have been quiet.”—he says calmly when he sits her down in a _borrowed_ car – it belongs to someone who can definitely take the hit; he’s checked. Ever since Grayson’s blatant disregard of their very presence, Raven has been deathly still, both verbally and non-verbally and Damian cannot find a single clue as to her current emotions despite having glued his eyes to her form for the last thirty minutes.

It is disconcerting to say the least.

“I don’t know what to say.”—the indigo-haired woman replies and – _fucking finally_ – it’s the first thing she’s said in about an hour. She doesn’t look up at him though and doesn’t elaborate either.

Damian growls. Slams the door shut a little more forcefully than maybe necessary before he rounds the hood and opens the driver’s door to plonk himself into the black leather seat, already ducking under the console to relieve an almost invisible panel and reach into the wires. It’s traceable this way, granted, and ever so sloppy but he has no patience for going through the reboot-sequence right now, although he’d probably know it if he would rake his mind for it.

“How about he’s a dirty asshole?”—he proposes as the car jumps to life under his knowledgeable fingers. Raven doesn’t react. He doesn’t know what makes him angrier: Grayson’s idiocy, Raven’s inaction, or his own impotence.

He drives a lot more aggressively than may be warranted.

 

-

 

Raven is gone the next morning and Grayson is still missing – Damian does _not know_ what to do.

He feels like killing and settles for slashing through a bulk of watermelons, although it does not make him feel any better and his training still calls for blood in regards to the slight that he has been dealt.

How dare he?   
How dare they?

Damian has had relationships fail badly before, several of them actually – be it for want of openness with his partners due to their not being inaugurated, be it for want of truthfulness due to his father’s regulations when it came to intimate relationships, be it for want of honest affection that he thought he could not allow himself lest he hurt his counterpart.

But never before has he been so openly discarded.

Grayson had stopped going after unassuming women and men for singular nights of pleasure when he was twenty-one from what Damian understands – when he was forced to leave the protective insignia and territory of The Bat the first time – and instead reached an agreement with Oracle who would later return to being the Original Batgirl and who was amenable to being Nightwing’s ‘stress-relief’, so long as he would accord her the same liberties that he took with her. They were not in a relationship, if Damian had read the implications correctly, but they were there for each other in a function that superseded mere friendship.

When first Damian and then Roth moved to Blüdhaven and came to live with him, Grayson stopped even that after a short period with them, and when his behaviour towards them altered even more…

He had been so very certain that Grayson had been sincere in his intentions and advances, but it proved to show that even he, Damian Wayne, could be fooled by matters pertaining the heart – he’d thought himself above it before.

Because his inattention is not the fault of the city he has yet to leave, Damian keeps patrolling as _Blackbird_ , even though neither _Crane_ nor _Raven_ nor _Nightwing_ are ever sighted. BPD is a little wary of him all on his lonesome, it shows in the hesitant flutter of their wings, but he imagines that they have plenty of reason to: Damian is not quite as proficient in governing his anger and frustration as Grayson has been, after all.

But even they soon learn that while _Blackbird_ is a little less likely to pull his punches, there is yet a line he is unwilling to cross, and given the fact that he is quite as – if perhaps not more – effective as _Nightwing_ has been, they settle.

Damian feels like a consolation prize.  
It doesn’t make his situation any better.

He wakes up alone; he drinks his coffee alone; he works out alone; he eats alone; he reads alone; he meditates alone; he patrols alone; he comes home alone; he goes to bed alone.

He avoids the couch like the plague; he won’t look at Roth’s copper can; he won’t look at the bits and baubles still strewn over the carpeted floor, still reflecting the sun. At some point he is going to have to pack up and leave, he knows, because he doesn’t actually live here and it’s obvious now that he doesn’t _belong_ here either. As of yet though, he cannot, no matter how much he wants to _run_ – and he has to admit, at least to himself, that he does want to – for the city needs some kind of vigilante; so long as Grayson is who-the-hell-knows-where, he needs to hold down the fort. This much he owes to the unsuspecting people of Blüdhaven; this much he owes to the man who raised him when he was Flock-less; this much he owes to himself.

 

-

 

“I cannot be-fucking-lieve you wouldn’t fucking go after him!”—the voice berates him, and somebody is tearing his covers off him before Damian can properly compute the reason why the voice does not register as a threat in his mind. His body is up and at the supposed aggressor, dagger at the throat, wings spread into the sleek facsimile of _Ra’s Deathbringer_ while his other weapon is pointed into the direction of a second presence his conscious only barely notices.

“Damian.”—Drake’s voice is the one he recognizes first with only the sound of his name and his weapons drop on automatic, his body slumps to the right and into the carpet covering his floor. He’s exhausted, he can’t remember the last time he’s had a decent amount of sleep that wasn’t plagued by nightmares – most prominently a replay of _that night_ – but something about Drake’s presence prompts him to pry his eyes open just long enough to survey the situation.

“Should’a known’s Todd’s potty-mouth.”—he rumbles and his throat aches a little from the lack of use; he’s always been prone to quiet, but he’s been downright _mute_ these last few weeks. His eyes close again. “’n who says ‘m ‘bout to go after n’ ass who can’ r’memb’r comm’n d’c’n’cy wh’n brea-break’n’ ‘p.”

He loses visuals as he slips right back into oblivion – he’s not certain if this isn’t a dream.

 

-

 

“Hey.”—something pushes into the space between his wings: rough, wet and warm and it reminds him of Titus’ way of saying ‘sustenance, human, I need it now’. He is conditioned to reply to the motion, rolls over to pat at the giant, heavy head of the Dane and is not even surprised when his palm lands to meet the fur-covered skull.

His eyes open and confirm the actual presence of his friend. “Titus.”—he says carefully, hand melding around the jaw of the dog to find the spot that for some unfathomable reason makes the giant always happy – as if he were a cat.

“Good morning to you too.”

Damian turns the other way, hand still on Titus’ head, to identify Tim Drake sitting at the other side of his bed, uncharacteristic white wings raised half-way in greeting, alongside the small, soft smile he sports. “You conked out on us.”

He can remember the vague vestiges of a dream. “Todd?”—he wonders quietly, voice still rough. Titus whines, lays his head atop his lap to ask for more affection; Damian complies readily – he has petting-debt to make good on.

Drake gives him another smile, closes the book that Damian notices only now in his hands – it’s one of Pennyworth’s collections that he has gifted to Damian on his twenty-first birthday; it’s not his first, but it’s one that has had a most distinguished row of owners before. It is pure Pennyworth heritage.

“Jason is alright, he’s been bemoaning the state of your kitchen for at least an hour before I could convince him to go out and rectify the apparent blight on Alfred’s name.”

Naturally.

Drake stands, wings sleeking out behind him as he does so, and bends over the covers to gently take Damian’s hand. He could just be measuring the pulse, but Damian… has not had any form of human contact out of patrol brawls and the flinch is almost instinctive, before he remembers to relax. Drake doesn’t comment on it verbally.

“We’ve been worried ever since neither of you showed up for Selina’s annual truce-festival.”

Damian should have known; he lies back down on his pillow. Selina Kyle, as the _traitor to all thieves and heroes_ had, years ago, started to instigate a small get-together of all those like-minded to lay down differences and weapons alike for a whole day. Gotham celebrates that day, Batman celebrates that day, the whole Wayne-Flock has always celebrated the day and Robins – former and current alike – are always a welcome face on the festive premises. And Damian usually likes going; he is on good foot with the Catwoman because he gets along most splendidly with pretty much all of her feline companions.

He has forgotten the date and now it has come and gone.

“Thought we might come by and see what the deal is about.”—Drake shrugs and puts his wrist back down. “Imagine our surprise when it turns out that _Blackbird_ has been sighted without either of his team-mates.” A small pause. “Also: Who is your third? It’s been driving Jason insane and I cannot help but admit my curiosity.”

“Tt.”—he clucks his tongue, falls back into familiar patterns – never mind that he hasn’t felt the need to express his frustration in such a way for months… “It’s of no importance now.”—he says quietly and moves to stand. “Grayson has flown Allah-knows-where and Crane is… gone.”

“Aw, crap.”

Todd is standing in his doorway, arms laden with groceries and a horrifyingly surprised mine on his face. “You did the dirty, didn’t you?”

There is something uniquely refreshing about Todd that has always blindsided Damian in the most pleasant of fashions – even when they were still held within the confines of the League of Shadows the man had the propensity to speak his mind as his mouth had grown, all expletives and none of the gloves others used to treat him with. Even then, when his mother had entertained a most questionable relationship with the second Robin, Damian had appreciated this particular trait.

Nevertheless he grimaces, wings ruffling in a way that makes the blades shake against each other with barely repressed annoyance. “Unlike you, Todd, it is not my habit to step into bed with everyone in my near vicinity.”

No matter that, maybe, he may have entertained such thoughts in the quiet of his mind, the deep of the night and under the shower. That is not for either of them to know – and it is obsolete now, is it not?

The older man, however, flails ungainly as his jaw drops along with the groceries. “No, no, no, no, no. I am _not_ hearing that implication.”—he complains, clasps his hands dramatically over his eyes.

Damian has forgotten – again, it happens way too often as of late – that the red-head with the bright Bluejay-wings had been taught in a similar fashion to Damian. He knows how to read bodies; the younger man sinks his own face into his hand, wings hunching over his shoulders to cover as much of his head as possible. Titus, worried, whines; pads closer to offer a consoling presence.

Drake sighs. “The rumours are true then.”—there is something like resignation in his voice. “I will forever be stunned by the timing of villains.”

The last bit he does not understand, but he does not think it’s safe enough to raise his head just yet – Todd is still moaning in Spanish; Damian’s grasp of the language is deplorable and he cannot even hope to decipher the babbling, but his older brother throws him a T-Shirt. “Go shower and get dressed. Jason is going to cook his stress out over your breakfast and then we’re going to have a talk.”

 

-

 

It feels wrong to have Drake’s slender physique instead of Roth’s at the stove, and Todd’s bulk where there should be Grayson’s. “I’m cutting to the chase.”—Todd says impatiently; “-because the sooner he knows, the sooner her stops moping.” He dumps his spoon angrily into the spongy bran he’s been making. “I swear his _mood_ could kill a soufflé right now. _Santa Madre de Dios, líbrame de idiotas_.”

Tim flicks a Kellogg at his older brother’s forehead and it’s gratifying to see the man flinch; enough to prompt a smirk of Damian – weak though it may be.

He’s showered and dressed in freshly washed clothes that he is certain he hasn’t seen in quite a while and the bran is acceptable – although, admittedly, not to his usual tastes. It is filling nevertheless and, he knows this from Alfred’s tutelage, easy on the stomach. But he’s too focused on just _what_ Todd wants to cut to the chase on.

“Dick is being controlled by Morgana. We can only assume the same counts for your Third.”

Bran, he discovers, does not make for a suitable choice in wallpaper.

 

***

 

She doesn’t realize it until it’s too late and Morgana’s claws are wrapping around her mouth, nails pressing angrily into her cheeks and before Raven can even hope to counteract the magic that is being done to her – to _Dick_ – she can sense the binds of an oppression spell in her blood.

It feels as if, suddenly, her cells are deprived the very oxygen that they need to live and Raven gasps for even the slightest sliver of air, but because that’s not really what’s lacking and it’s hard to do with a hand clamped over your lips like a vice, the effort doesn’t yield any results, save for the realization that – _there’s iron on her fingers._

 

-

 

Not having looked for Morgana in this reality has turned out to be a grievous error that is currently costing her all she holds dear. They’ve had run-ins before, on other planes, certainly, but the thing about _magic_ is that it’s more than just _meta_.

Magic, if treated rightly, guides the user with whispers, with shouts, with gut-feelings, tingling in the fingertips, the burning of an old scar, weather-changes, visions – what-have-you, really. Raven is reluctant to come close to Bruce Wayne because she knows how close he is to Zatanna, not to mention Dr Fate. They’ve both been instrumental to the less-stellar outcomes of other storylines of hers and she doesn’t doubt that their magic is strong enough to let them know too.

And because the human variable is always an _unknown_ , she is relatively certain that a strategic avoidance of them is her best option.

Overlooking _Morgana and Mordred_ though… that was just… that was the error of a bloody novice; it’s not something Raven would usually describe herself as, but there you are and here she is. Bound by magic and forced to watch Dick lose his mind – _again, oh Azar, what_ _had_ _she been thinking getting close to him, putting him in danger_ – and Damian suffering, without even the ability to mouth off to her captors.

They know she needs her tongue and her lips to manifest her formulas, especially with how much drain the iron puts on her, and have thus not merely bound the magic in her veins, but have done so, too, with her vocal cords, have tied even her fingers and all that she can move is her rump and her eyes.

_Maintaining hygiene is awkward, the less said about that, the better._

But she is aware this is only to pass the time.   
Because Azar forbid Morgana not have a plan more sinister than the breaking of three hearts.

_And, oh, she can hear the cracks splintering the fragile organs in the solitude of her mind – the only solace she can find in this situation and it is thus tainted._

Morgana needs something more, however – she needs Raven’s demon, although until Klarion marches into the ostentatious Presidential Suite that the two Arthurian magicians have commandeered for themselves, Raven is unclear on the why.

The Witch-Boy though… yes, that makes sense. Demons are, after all, not merely subjects to Chaos magic – they feed on it much as they enhance and strengthen it; it is, quite possibly, the most dangerous symbiosis to exist in this universe.

It’s likely Klarion wants her demon because Teekl is no longer sufficient to filter through the amount of Chaos Magic he has amassed – probably because he tampered with something that was beyond him, which would be rare but not impossible, Raven figures. It would mean that his sheer power would eventually start to eat away at his link between him and his familiar; it would consume his only chance at tying himself to a material plane, and thus his sole means of enacting his role as Chaos Magician.

Without his anchor, he would be condemned to an infinite existence within the very source of chaos he calls upon; he would be merely another particle of it - he would not possess a consciousness, would not possess a body. He would be nothing, and if there is one thing she has learned about him throughout her travels, it is that he cannot bear to be anything less than the absolute centre of attention.

But the Witch-Boy isn’t much of a humanitarian, so what is one single meat-bag in exchange for a continued existence, and one much stronger than before at that?

“So unfortunate,”—the witch boy coos as he puts his black-tipped fingers to her chin, “-that your vessel is not going to survive this.” The sinister grimace on his face could possibly pass for a _smile_ , if she were generous in her application of the term. “It is quite a lovely one you have chosen.”

Raven spits him in the face when his fingers dip lower; doesn’t even hesitate or regret it when he reaches up to dig his black claws into her cheeks, raking down to her neck, leaving burning welts of torn flesh. “Ah, and your _spirit._ ”—he licks his lips. “This one looks so _delicious_.”—he croons, flattens his palm against her sternum. “Say, we’ve met in so many worlds, my love, but how come your essence is positively delectable in this one?”

He leans in, sniffs at her.   
Raven wants to yell at him, goad him, curse him.   
Azar, but she wants to _eviscerate_ him.

Klarion cackles. “Such _fire_ in you, young Raven.”—he sneers. “Hold on to it, feed it. Because trust me, after we’re done with you, it’s all that’s going to survive of you.”

 

-

 

She’s aware that time passes, it has to, time is fixed like that – in its’ constantly flowing form – but she cannot tell exactly _how_ much of it passes. Glimpses of Dick and Damian become rare; they are interludes at best and never happen long enough to gauge just how long she has been here, until even that stops and Raven flies blind.

In total, she has ventured an escape five times – once by mustering enough energy to undo the binds on her vocal cords and put at least Morgana into deep sleep, unfortunately Mordred caught up quicker than anticipated and Raven was no match for him in her state; then she tried undoing her bodily binds and slipping away into the darkness while neither of them were present, only to be caught off guard and stalled long enough by Cerberus; she got aggressive then, coughed up enough strength to curse them with her mind and the little demonic energy she dared use, and this is the farthest she got, before Teekl literally scooped her up to return her; number four and five had both been increasingly deviant – _demonic_ – plans of escape but those too had been foiled.

As it is, Raven is ready to let loose on _the demon_ \--  
\--if only she could be certain she’d be able to control it what with the toxic, black-magic air she’s been bathed in, has breathed, these last days – weeks, months, who knows.

The only reason she doesn’t is Dick and Damian. Both of whom are hurting enough as it is – she doesn’t want them to have to fight Trigon’s only daughter while their souls are bleeding. So long as she has the consciousness to avoid it, she does not want to hurt them any more than she already has.

 


	17. Brother Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You came upon a lightning strike/ and eyes of bright clear blue/ I took that tie from around my neck/ and gave my heart to you_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so admittedly this took longer than anticipated and I apologize for the super-long wait; we've been a little held-up with college and didn't actually think it'd take so long; BUT here it is: the long awaited continuation of Wings - please do enjoy :)

  

+++

 

“You’re not going alone.”

“Jason-”

“Fuck that, Dickie-bird. Whatever it is you’re about to say, you stuff that right back down your throat and you will listen.”—Dick shuts up, listens for once. “That is my _Wing_ we’re talking about. My fucking precious. And like fucking hell am I going to let that damned Psycho-Witch get his eely fingers on any part of her, you _hear_ me? I am _not_ meeting her in the In Between again; we made that deal.”

Damian doesn’t understand half of what Todd is saying, but he thinks that the vehemence of his words and the wide-spread agitation of his wings alone convey what the usually articulate man cannot hope to put in words. It would seem-

“You’re close.”—he observes quietly, patting Titus’ head to hide the uncontrolled tremors in his hands as he unlocks a new puzzle-piece of Roth. He wonders how many more there are.

“Fuck yes.”—Todd agrees, gives him a glare. “And if I’d known that she’s your Third you would’ve had to come to me first before even _thinking_ of wooing her.”

“Jay-“

“Shut it, Dick.”—he flails with intent, wings arched high and wide, pushing his finger against the unarmoured chest of the slightly smaller man. “I told you. That is my Wing. She’s mine; she’s my sister-soul, she’s my dawn and my dusk and I will die a million deaths for her without losing a single thought to it. She is more precious than any gem you could ever hope to possess. So yes: You want to court her – you first come to me. She’s my Flock.”

It’s never occurred to him that this is how Todd might once have felt about the Wayne-Flock. Surprisingly enough, however, it is heartening to realize that this is how he may, one day in the future… or even now, already, feel about _them_. Robins – past and discarded, bound by so much more than mere blood and genetics.

“It was a unanimous decision to not let anyone know about her whereabouts,”—he interjects quietly, draws patterns into the fur of the Great Dane using his lap as a pillow. “Bruce has a way of overreacting with regards to individuals whose abilities surpass a generic normative.”

This is not a secret amongst the Robins; they’ve all had their fair share of relationships to and with people who, as Batman would put it, were not approved – Sandsmark, The Clone, Allen, West… just to name four out of the surprisingly long list, now that he thinks about it.

Todd deflates just barely, enough, at the very least, to ease away from Richard, who doesn’t dare look in his direction, even though Damian can see and feel the relief that seeps into him. For a moment Damian wonders what they look like from the outside and can almost see them: tied so closely to each other yet hurting from and for the other.

What a mess they make.

 

 -

 

Drake and Todd are a story that Damian has been avidly following ever since the day Jason Todd had been presented to him as his new sparring partner in the al Ghul court.

Back then the redhead was a singular fuse, easy to light and ready to blow at any given moment – Damian had made a sport of aggravating the older man, had relished in the dance of jayblue-feathers against his titanium-alloy when they battled in quarters that barely managed to hold even one of them. It was exhilarating then; Damian did not see reason to change his behaviour.

And he didn’t – not exactly – but he did choose to elect Todd as his favoured companion on missions, and when trivial doubts carved their way into his brain he would seek Todd out for quiet togetherness – they wouldn’t talk, and Damian would re-orient himself while the older man compiled information on The Bat and the boy that had usurped his position as _Robin_.

Even then the strange fascination Todd had with the other bird teetered dangerously on an edge, but Damian decided to keep this revelation to himself; let the man work it out on his own. When Todd left, Damian lost a much valued Second.

When his mother left him with his father in order for him to take over the City of Demons as his grandfather liked to call it, he learned that Todd had not yet figured it out – had tried but failed to annihilate the young man with the white plumage _twice._ It was almost a blight on Todd’s capabilities if Damian wasn’t aware that if Todd had wanted Drake dead, the younger man most certainly would be.

He followed the antagonistic relationship between Todd and Drake for almost a year before The Joker escaped from the Arkham Aviary and managed to get his grubby claws into the flesh of Drake.

It must have been then that Todd put aside his darker desires for the other man’s life and instead decided to settle on a kinship that could only come from having survived the mad bird of Gotham.

Damian chose to ignore the following year of hapless courting-attempts that somehow – _Good Gracious, Allah must really want to do right by you Todd this should not have worked_ – bore fruit and resulted in a white feather amongst blues and a blue amongst whites.

The Bat expressed futile notions of disapproval.

Todd gave him the finger and several very choice words to chew on.

Drake defiantly continued to parade the jayblue feather in his plumage.

Damian was surprised how well matched the two of them were.

 

-

 

They don’t know how Jason knows Raven and the man himself is unusually tight-lipped about the subject, occasionally reverting to Spanish expletives when either of them comes too close to prodding at the apparently tender backstory.

Drake advises them to leave it for the time being. Given that Richard has not had a proper night’s sleep, judging by his mangled physique and facial expressions, Damian concedes to this and pulls the older man towards their couch instead.

For a moment his partner stalls in front of it, eyes widened in almost comical fear and desperation when he says: “I can’t- Damian-”— and the fact that the normally verbose man is reduced to half-sentences seals for him what maybe should have been more obvious before: Richard has not been in his proper mind.

“Get in,”—he commands in a low growl, feathers perfectly placid and sleek in his back, one of Roth’s cloaks in his hands. “I’ve had three weeks of attempting rest in my own hovel and it’s been annoyingly ineffective. We are going to sleep and then we are going to get that woman right back with us, you hear me?”

He’s never been more certain about anything else, despite the fact that his own heart feels as if it is going to jump up into his throat and out through his mouth.

Richard complies, and even though the sun is relatively high in the sky when they lie down, their slumber is largely uninterrupted until the dawn of the next day. Damian wakes with his head in the nook of Richard’s throat – a nostalgic facsimile of when he would crawl into Grayson’s room or vice versa back at the Manor – and Titus at the side of the couch, keeping watch. Their feathers are tangled in each other’s, black blotting out the glint of titanium-alloy, as are their legs, as are their fingers, meeting over the solitary cloak that has not moved from between their bodies.

For the first time in three weeks, Damian allows his mind to drift towards the woman that should be sharing the bed with them, and he wonders if the last month has been equal to hell to Richard and him, how must it have felt for Raven?

 

***

 

Dick hates _not remembering_. He’s been there before and it was not a good time.

Before, however, there had been Raven with her mystical touch and her willingness to heal him, to let him into her mind and to ease herself into his, mending what had been broken. _Before_ – he hadn’t been an asshole that left her and Damian in the middle of their first date night.

Can’t get any worse than that, if he’s honest with himself; what kind of man has his mind twisted so easily to follow after another _broad_ when there was the most perfect of women right there at his table? How could he have dismissed Damian, of all people?

He’s the one who has been finding ways to show them his appreciation – hasn’t he? He’s been the one who’d wanted that date night – just for themselves, just for once. He’s been the one who’d decided that – _yes_ , _these two_.

Yet he, too, is the one who’s stood up from the table and simply _lef_ _t_ – without any rhyme or reason, without a thought to either of _his tw_ _o_ , without a doubt that the stranger woman whose face he can’t even recall was the highlight of his evening.

As he burrows deeper into the dark disarray of Damian’s locks, he wonders what kind of man that makes him.

 _Because he feels like it makes him an unworthy bastard of Trig_ _on pr_ _oportions._

 

-

 

Magic. He gets why Bruce detests it on his worse days and is tolerant of it on his best.

In the hands of Raven, it is a wonderful thing, pure and strong, courageous and beautiful; it is a means to help, to heal and to do what other people might not be able to do right off the bat. It’s a way to send a lost man back to his own time; it’s the power to heal the broken mind of a man who hasn’t known his own name for a year; it’s the ability to soothe the fears that children have of the dark. Zatanna, Lilith, and Dr Fate have the same capabilities, the same tendencies, use them for the good fight; hell even Kaldur has an affinity for the mystic arts.

So it’s not that Dick doesn’t know any people who are not, in fact, misusing their abilities with greater powers – it’s just, he’s now too fallen victim to those people who couldn’t care less about the betterment of the globe.

“We don’t know _what_ happened, do we?”—he asks when going over the restaurant’s security tape for the nth time; there’s no visual confirmation that Dick _hasn’t_ acted of his own free will and he can’t… he can’t look at this.

Tim hums almost non-verbally, before freezing a frame – fingers flying.

“There you are, you cunt.”

Dick doesn’t notice that the smear on the security camera morphs into the twisted but familiar features of Morgana – he cannot believe such language just came out of Timmy-bird’s mouth.

He’s going to have _words_ with Jason.

So many words.

 

-

 

Finding Morgana as a ‘mere mortal’ is pretty close to undoable, which is why Dick knows – the moment he registers her presence on the video feed – that they are going to have to call in reinforcements. He still has some open debts with Zatanna and Kaldur so that, all in all, should not be a problem.

“But is it worth revealing her?”—Damian asks quietly, gives him a look over the breakfast table that has turned into their temporary mission-conference, even though they do have an operation HQ further down the hall. But Jason is a late-riser and he’s the self-proclaimed God of the kitchen stove, so they remain where they are, even when breakfast is over and coffee turns into dandelion-root-tea.

Tim shrugs. “You’d have had to come clean sooner or later either way.”

Which is true, but still doesn’t make them feel any less apprehensive about the situation; Raven is, after all, not your ‘usual’ magic user. He doesn’t doubt that Zatanna – if not Dr Fate before her – would _notice_ their woman’s otherness. And while both Dick and Damian are privy to the struggle that she goes through on a semi-regular basis concerning her demonic-side, this does not apply to any members of the Justice League. Not to mention the fact that they both probably risk permanent disinheritance.

Damian’s shoulders slouch a little. “That was never out of question, Timothy,”—he agrees quietly. “I merely do not see the appeal of having all kinds of bloodhounds come down on her.”

“Us,”—Dick corrects him. “Don’t think they wouldn’t come down on us either… Also I think _Hellhounds_ would a much more apt description.”

Jason shudders over the stove, but doesn’t comment – Tim, although his back is turned to the other man, reaches a hand behind him, puts it to his partner’s hip in a soothing manner. Dick still doesn’t know what had happened to Jason while he was… gone-but-not-gone, and the few bits and pieces of intel he has collected don’t necessarily make any sense either, but he knows to be patient. Jason’s story is his own – he’ll come out with it if ever he feels like he wants to.

“We’re in agreement then?”—Tim asks instead, gives them all a look. Dick nods; Damian copies his motion. “Fantastic. Let me just-”

 

-

 

“I’m blaming you for Tim’s potty-mouth,”—he says quietly when they find themselves facing off against each other on the training mats. “Before you _crap_ was his idea of strong language.”

Dick has him in a rather artful chokehold that is the result of twenty-two minutes of jabs, hooks, kicks and punches – the only reason he’s somewhat victorious in this moment is because his flexibility is an advantage Jason does not have.

The man in question gives a raspy laugh, squirms in the hold, tries to find a way out. “I resent and resemble that notion.” He frees one of his legs with an impressive show of strength and precise movement, rolls them over to use Dick’s hold against himself and gives him a uniquely smug look as he smiles down at him. “Babybird always knew how to cuss, I just roughened down the polished edges a little.”

One of his arms is bent over his own throat, glued in position by Jason’s heavier hand, his other hand underneath his back, almost self-fixating what with his brother’s weight on top of him. Dick bucks, uses the fraction of a moment to free his arm, wiggles out of his hold, grapples with the redhead.

It’s almost like old times.

“I disagree. He was pure before you – lovely and so close to holiness that the Pope looked to him for guidance.”

Jason snorts despite their positions, sly grin spreading over his face. “If that’s the case then I guess our dear old _Papa_ got some rather inventive ideas…”

They roll around a little more, but evenly matched as they are, it stops somewhere around the thirty-minute mark with the two of them lying next to each other, panting hard, stupid smiles etched on their faces.

“Seriously though,”—Dick says as he turns his head to look at his brother, “-I didn’t know Timmy was even _aware_ of those words.”

Jason snorts, sits up and gives him a meaningful look. “Yeah, well he’s like a little _piñata_ _,_ that one. You tap it often enough, it opens up.”

“Oh God, _Jay_.”

 

***

 

Zatanna Zatarra arrives three days later and Jason doesn’t quite like the way she looks at him. He’s been on the edge all day long and his Timmy is the only one who hasn’t tried to talk him down from his verbal outbursts – but that’s because their Babybird knows how to deal with him best. His _Wing_ has told him that his stint in the in-between and The Pit would leave traces on his soul that any magic-user worth their salt would detect. He doesn’t doubt that Zatarra is one of the good ones, but it does make him uneasy to the point that the sensation is crawling under his skin like liquid, green fire.

Logically he knows she is here for a means to track his _Wing_ and nothing more; she’s not here to ‘cure’ or ‘exorcise’ him – there have been offers from other people he’s met before – and it makes her presence a little less aggravating to deal with, but not nearly enough to stop the frequently recurring and increasingly appealing thoughts of giving her a real good reason to look at him like that.

“We need you to find someone for us,”—Dick says very carefully, kneading the cloak in his hands as if it could offer up answers. “And some… guidance.”

Because neither of them actually know how to _fight_ a fucking witch; thank you Bruce for being a colossal asshole and not preparing them for what is about to be the most important mission they will ever go on.

Tim gives him an admonishing side-glance.

Jason throws his hands into the air.

_Of course the idiot can practically hear his thoughts, it’s not like he trained with Lady Shiva, now isn’t it? Stupid pendejo._

Zatarra gives the cloak a suspicious look. “This belongs to person you’re looking for,”—she states more than asks and Dick nods, uncertain and a little shy, Damian a solid statue of support in his back, arms crossed, glare already fixed on his Pug-Face.

Something in her hesitance cracks Jason; there’s something in her eyes that lets him know she’s broadcasting thoughts that neither of them can hear but clearly read in her body and there’s… Damian’s clucks his tongue impatiently at the same moment that Jason snarls.

“You don’t want to do it, you don’t, Zatarra; quit wasting our time.”

The black-haired woman twirls on her spot, wings arched high and sparkling, eyes slit in anger – it takes Jason a second to recognize that his own vision is tinted, and his own wings are mirroring hers, but even then, he does not back down from his position. If she wants to see the full extent of what The Pit did to him, she can be his fucking guest.

“You’re asking me to track down a demon,”—she sneers, as if this says it all. “And I wonder if that is related to a dead-man-walking.”

Green takes over.

 

-

 

Jason meets Raven Roth in a fire of green _hate_ standing on top of a mountain of slaughtered souls. He can’t think straight over the cold clutches of deadly fear that threaten to close in on him like walls, of which there are none in this wherever-here-is.

He doesn’t quite know what it is about him that makes him lethal, but he has figured out a way to use it – and when the woman in black first comes too close, Jason raises his hands and fears-despairs-hates with such a passion that he is certain this soul, too, will succumb to it, but when the green fire dies down, all he sees is a bubble of black and then – _Azarath, Metrion, Zinthos_ – it swallows him.

When he reawakens, his station has changed, the surroundings giving away the new location, but he cannot tell where it is any more than he could before. The woman in black is gone and the hate-fear-despair in him is a little less strong for some reason.

She leaves him feeling a little more like himself, feeling a little less like a monster and with his mind somewhat clearer.

 

-

 

“You are stronger than you should be,”—she tells him when he regains control of his mind, and Jason lets up on the vice-like grip he has on her as soon as he registers Timmy’s Bo Staff cackling at the base of his throat.

“Yeah well, I’ve had training,”—he retorts as he lets go and steps back; Timmy-bird follows his form, eyes hard and unreadable behind his lenses and Jason lauds him for not easing up as Dick and Damian have. Dick helps the sorceress up.

“That blockade…”—Jason shrugs before she can continue.

“’s a present,”—he says instead. “I can’t actually _kill_ people in the haze.”

It’s a mercy to have it – this barrier; he doesn’t like realizing that it stopped him yet again, but he also doesn’t like thinking about what could have happened if it hadn’t – he can’t think about what could have happened if his Berserk had _not_ been stopped. Can’t think about Dick, about the Demon Spawn – _S_ _anta_ _M_ _aria_ , about _Tim_.

He fixes his sight on the smaller man in front of him, knows that despite his slender physique he is no less deadly than any of the others in the room – maybe even more so because of it. Underestimation is a thing that he knows his partner abuses regularly in fights against overconfident opponents.

“We good?”—the man asks in a voice that is pure profession, the treble that is _Red Robi_ _n_. Jason nods, feels the tension in his muscles ease as he does so, notices the green recede from his vision; the fire in his veins dims. Tim stands down, collapses the Bo Staff.

“The demon created that in you,”—Zatarra says as she reaches for the cloak, “And did not demand a piece of you…”

The question is cleverly hidden in her tone, but her eyes, locked to him, demand a truthful answer. Jason nods.

“Where we met nothing was to be had. I imagine that little piece of magic ties her more to me than me to her, though I can’t say for certain,”—mostly because even after all these years the intimate workings of Raven’s powers are still obscure to him, no matter how often she has tried to explain or even show him.

The sorceress nods. “If for nothing else, then for this.”

 _Erehw si eht_ _roteirporp_ _fo siht kaolc_

Zatarra finds Raven Roth.

She, too, finds more than they bargained for – Morgana, Mordred, _Klarion_ – she advises back-up.

 

-

 

The second time they meet, Jason is in a better head-space… or _space_ just simply; he’s not standing over a bunch of carcasses. It’s a start.

“Do you know your name?”—the woman in black asks him just when he is certain that she is about to float him by like so many other souls have in the last time. He doesn’t even have an approximate guess, but time certainly does pass. The few souls that have stopped to deign him with a few scarce words have all told him so.

“Yes,”—he answers, feels his face morph into something incredulous. Of course he knows his name, he’s—

“Don’t say it out loud,”—she says then, and he sees her eyes for the first time, finds himself sucked into the strange violet irises that bore into him. “In fact, don’t even _think_ it. Names have power and there is not a single being here that would be above trying to enslave you.” She closes in, only barely, her eyes holding more power than maybe they should – Jason cannot find the strength to voice this. “ _Keep it secret._ ”

He starts to think of himself as _Bluejay_.

 

-

 

Bruce looks like he wants to argue and fuck if Jason isn’t egging him on in his mind – it’s not so much The Pit licking at his insides rather than the fact that he’s _waiting_ for the man to come out and say what he’s been thinking throughout the briefing, tension etched into every line of his body. Batman looks like he’s had to swallow Clayface, and despite the fact that none of the Leaguers seem to be aware of this, every Robin can read the tells in their former mentor’s physique clear as day.

 _Although this could be due to the extra-_ _curricular_ _education every Robin ever has, at some point, gone through,_ _far away from the prying eyes of The Bat_ _._

Zatarra makes it abundantly clear, once again, just _what_ it would mean if Klarion got his paws on _the demon_. The fact that they haven’t managed to call Raven by her given name even though it’s been mentioned in passing is additional fuel to the already burning fire in him, despite the fact that he has, until now, quite valiantly refrained from calling any of them out on their bullshit.

He’s not going to be friends with Zatarra at any point in the near future.

“What will happen with the demon afterwards?”—and that’s Constantine asking; the very man who has been incredibly instrumental in the JLA’s last hoe-down and definitely not someone who Jason wants close to his _Wing_.

“Given the fact that the individual in question has been part of the Teen Titans as well as Young Justice at one point, there would appear to be little reason for hostile actions.”—It’s times like this that Jason can see Timmers behind the CEO-desk of WE… and why he’s arguably the most diplomatic Robin.

Constantine looks suspicious. “Not to tread on anybody’s toes, but it’s been my experience that demons have a nature of their own… one that tends to act out, and mostly in a violent fashion.”

Jason has half a mind to get _violent_ right then and there. He’s held back by a strong, gloved hand on his thigh – Red Robin’s lips are pressed into a thin line, and when he moves his other hand the whole table can observe the data-points at the tip of his index-finger expanding into visuals against the hologram-monitors.

Timmers should not be in possession of this technology, given the fact that it’s reserved for JLA-only-meetings, but Jason supposes that is the beauty of being a genius-hacker with frequent bouts of boredom.

The data-points expand into several video-feeds that obviously stem from in-suit-cameras as well as accompanying reports – again: Tim should not have those.

“Like this?”

 

-

 

She calls herself _Wing_ the next time they happen unto each other.

“Sounds a little generic,”—he tells her honestly as she accompanies him to another part of the Netherworld – _In-Between, if she’s to be believed, but he’s very careful about that these days._ If he’s honest she’s probably carrying more of his weight than she either should have to or should be able to.

In return, she graces his comment with a careless shrug of her unoccupied shoulder, belying yet again the fragile bone-structure under the cloak that turns out to be a dark indigo instead of the black he’s always perceived it to be. Now that he’s practically resting his head in it he can finally tell – the lighting is for _shit_ down here. Replacement would be so annoyed by it. “It’s close enough for me to actually believe it,”— _Wing_ shoots back. “It’s good enough to keep me from trouble.”

He’s just learned that all shields – no matter how small or insignificant they might appear to others, no matter what forms they could take – go a long way. From showing the true face to letting beings know the true name, every decision could either bite you in the ass at a later point – no doubt now, too, that it would – or save whatever would be left of it.

Judging by the fact that he has just survived a dip in yet another pit thanks to actually listening to her and _not_ revealing his true name, he’s going to put her in the ‘somewhat trustable’ column – she shares it with _Catwoman_ ; maybe she’d be honoured to know.

“So how come you can… travel?”—he asks carefully; tries to learn a bit more about his unwitting aide even though he knows that maybe he doesn’t even want to know; that sometimes these things involve unspeakable rituals – but _Wing_ doesn’t necessarily strike him as the kind of being that would sacrifice other souls or parts of bodies for certain abilities. She kind of lacks the aura for it.

_Also: he’s encountered most of them already – he’s been using them as lookout tower the first time Wing crossed paths with him._

“Some beings are birthed with this ability,”—she answers evasively. Jason takes this to mean that _Wing_ has been too; sounds reasonable given what he knows about the top-side metas.

“You staying around longer this time?”

“If only to keep you away from the Lava Pits.”

“I swear it was only that _one_ time.”

 

-

 

The Bat finds them in Dick’s old quarters, sequestered away and giving each other the silent-support-treatment that solidifies their quiet agreement they had reached ever since Zatarra had left Dickie-bird’s loft to call in reinforcements.

His wife slips in behind his cape, ever the quiet shadow and, predictably, doesn’t say a word when Gotham’s Knight closes in on his four former Robins.

“What are you doing?”—he asks without preamble and, boy Bruce, that is one fucking loaded question.

“Righting a wrong,”—Dick answers; and Jason can see that – has watched his older brother beat himself up over something he’s had no power over and yes, this is what it is for Dick.

It’s not for all of them, however, and when the Bat’s eyes slide towards Damian, at least the redhead becomes well aware that their former mentor is looking for a reason that will placate him; he’s probably not going to find it – _but good luck looking_.

_They’re all going to be disowned.  
_

_So badly._

Tim speaks up next, because Damian has settled for temporary glowering, probably having deduced Bruce’s reason for being here just as Jason has – if not quicker.

 _He remembers a time when the younger man was ahead of him by at least five steps no matter what he did_.

“Helping a friend,”—Red Robin growls, clenches his fists. Bruce doesn’t dare to argue because Lord knows Timbo’s lost too many of his friends to just stand by and _watch_ this time around. Doesn’t matter if they came back in the end – Tim just… if he can help, he will. This kind of logic Bruce – of all people – cannot fault.

Jason gives him the devil’s smile that he hasn’t worn since his days as Robin: “Taking care of family,”—he chirps and fuck if Bruce’s Raven wings don’t ruffle.

Damian is last, and he wonders if the boy that he’s gotten to know as _His General_ has been biding his time in order to execute the strategically best hit – it’s been his favoured way of winning in chess: waiting, watching, tying the net in loose terms before knotting it so tight around the figurines of his opponent that moving was near impossible.

“Going against everything you’ve taught me,”—he says, sheathing the very katana that Bruce – if he remembers correctly – had locked away in a dramatic movement. Jason swears Damian inherited the theatrics genetically, Lord knows neither Ra’s nor Talia had any patience for it.

Blue eyes meet blue; same quality, same hue.

_They’re all going to be disowned.  
_

_So very badl_ _y._


	18. Demon Cwène

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Mein Sohn was birgst du so bang dein Gesicht/ Siehst Vater, du, den Erlkönig nicht_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you **ALL** for your patience and your continued support. Thank you so much for letting me take my time and for your understanding. 
> 
> Thank you. 
> 
> Please do enjoy.

 

 

+++

 

Raven can tell when it’s going to happen. She’s known for some time now but leaving captors in the dark about one’s own designs is Vigilantism 101 and given the fact that she’s been disabled from attacking her aggressors in any way, it would have been an exercise in futility trying to mouth off to them.

However: she’s Raven fucking Roth and while the voice in her head might just sound a little too suspiciously like her _Bluejay_ , this doesn’t change the fact that she’s a daughter of Trigon and she’s slayed him like the Queen B that she is.

Like hell is Klarion the Witch Sucker getting his claws on her.

 _After all s_ _he has two idiot men to get back to,_ _among others_ _._

 

-

 

There’s no point in denying the demon in the In-Between.

Trigon’s Princess is a separate entity here in the Aether, and Raven only ever has pieces of the demoness within the many forms of _her_ in the various material realities. That being said, her biological make-up tends to come through one way or another even when the soul-piece of her that is not human reunites with the Mother Soul.

So whenever she spends more time than strictly necessary in the Aether, she doesn’t try to police the way her skin turns red or her antlers grow. It’s also the only place she can really stretch her wings without being looked at queerly – even though she still prefers hovering.

When she first meets the soul that, at a later date, will introduce themselves as _Bluejay_ – they are burning; standing more or less triumphantly on top of a mountain of slayed demons of a nether class. She doesn’t know what exactly it is that draws her to them, but she has learned to follow the call of her magic where it pulls her.

This much she has come to acknowledge over the years: her intuition is always right.

Up close she can see that whoever it is, they wear the soul of a young boy, reddish-brown hair with seafoam-blue eyes that remind her strangely of _Robin_ with the difference that she can suddenly _taste_ the raw hate-despair-anger-tired-why-help-fight-survive-help around the soul.

She gets too close for comfort because the next moment she finds out just how it comes that the soul of an eight year old is using the corpses under their feet as watch-tower. The _Power Of Despair_ blindsides her for about a second and it’s the first time that Trigon’s Princess saves Raven Roth.

Raven Roth, in return, decides to save the soul.

 

-

 

Never trust a demon.

Not even when said demon makes up 47.6% of your genetic material.

_Especially not then._

It hasn’t taken her long to figure that particular bit out and even though she and her demon-side are on more or less friendly terms as of now this only applies to situations in which rationale prevails – i.e. when Raven is in control.

Such is not going to be the case once Klarion gets his claws on her demon in order to rip it out of her very being, which is why Raven has retreated early from reality, conjuring the last of her strength to slip through the cracks of her restraints and seep into the In-Between.

Ironically enough, it is here that she finally realizes just how much time has passed in the material world – how much of it she still has. And because the top-side doesn’t necessarily offer her anything of use, she stays.

She stays and quietly siphons strength off her surroundings.

She stays and dismantles the binds that inhibit her physical body.

She stays and summons Trigon’s Princess, growing stronger by her side every day that they sit next to each other – biding their time, meditating.

 

-

 

The soul is different when she next sees him – and it's obvious, this time around, that they’re male, at least judged by what she can see of them. If it weren’t for the fact that souls weren’t supposed to age in the In-Between she’d say he’d grown but… that cannot be it.

There are only very few circumstances, most of them dubious at best, in which this could be possible, Raven doesn’t think she’d ever encounter someone who would be _there-but-not_.

The anger-hate-despair-fear has mellowed down around the soul and if she had needed any indication of them getting ‘better’ – as much as one could in these realms – then this was it; it is enough reason for her to offer tentative conversation.

 

-

 

There should be repercussions for choosing to be ethereal rather than remain in the material world and Raven knows that sooner or later she would be dealing with the consequences – right now, however, having a rather large percentage of herself being Native to these lands means that she has an advantage neither of her captors seem to have thought of.

Raven cannot exactly fault them for it, given that she herself has needed a good deal of time to even start harbouring the suspicion that it was not the totality of her capabilities being blocked by the binds on her magic. There had also been the gamble on whether she would actually manage to use the _leylines_ the hotel was built on to enter the In-Between undetected.

But it turns out she had been right.

Which is an upside in her current situation.

The _downside_ of the situation is that even though she has managed the mental disappearance onto another plane of reality – or not-reality, the In-Between is… well, _in between_ several realities and quite fickle in that regard – the part of her that is largely in command _here_ are the 47.6% that she knows better than to trust.

However, Raven has one Ace up her sleeve that she does not share with the red-skinned, antlered and leather-winged goddess of Pride and destruction, despite the fact that she shares pretty much everything else that has and is going on topside. But she plans to play her one move to the extent it will go which is why she guards it with all she has left of herself.

So when she feels herself weaken in the presence of Trigon’s Princess, she doesn’t fight it – embraces it with the fearful kind of enthusiasm that accompanies the fledglings of a plan – and when the Gaelic Chants reverberate throughout _their_ cavern, Raven’s presence fades from existence quietly, leaving Trigon’s Princess as the sole survivor in the wake.

 

-

 

She isn’t bothered when she cannot see the new face of them because they are dressed in rips of bandages that she really doesn’t want to know the providence of – the In-Between is not exactly a place where one can simply acquire such thing in the exchange for moneys. They are identifiable enough by their seafoam-eyes and the shock of brown-red hair adorned with a white streak that’s almost customary for the souls in the In-Between; over time most of them whiten out completely.

What bothers her is that the soul she has, one might argue, claimed patronage over had managed – yet again – to find themselves in a pickle of extraordinary proportions. Raven doesn’t even bother to be sympathetic when she gives him a quirk of her eyebrow from where she hovers just a few feet below them.

“Why hello there.”—he greets her with the kind of joviality that she cannot gauge – if it’s fake he does one hell of a job believing in it. “How kind of you to stop by.”

There is an actual laugh, tinkling through his voice and Raven should know better but she can’t exactly help the small smile that plays at her own lips – if nothing else then at least he tends to find humour in the direst situations. It might just save him.

“Though I’d come by… hang out.”—she answers drily as she floats upwards and towards his position and even though she cannot see his face, the proud smugness at her word-play hangs between them.

“Would you help a fella out?”—he asks, wiggling his shackled appendages, and his question is refreshingly direct; no formulaic non-sequiturs, no small-talk, no lies. It’s something to appreciate about him.

She spreads her magic, reaching for the entrapments with her mind, feels the dark matter rush from her body, meld with the environment it thrives on naturally and unlock the casts. It catches his body effortlessly as he falls from where he’s been strung up between two sinter columns. He feels strangely solid in her grasp.

“Am I going to have to stick around again?”—she asks quietly as she levitates them down, knowing, even as her mouth forms the words, that she will – because someone must have strung him up there, and the souls of the In-Between should know better than to interfere with Trigon’s Princess.

No matter if that is not, usually, what she calls herself; or that she has not, in fact, staked claim over the soul in a way that would make it clear to other demons and beings that he is under her protection. She cannot imagine what that would do to either of them – so she doesn’t approach the subject either (yet…).

“If you would be so inclined, Princess.”—he says in a slightly rougher voice, breath easier as his feet get re-acquainted with the ground; it’s only now that she notices the abused state of his joints and wonders just how _long_ he has been up there before she heard his call. “I should think your presence would prove… beneficial when I go kick some butts.”

Raven doesn’t doubt it. “Do you know where they are?”

The soul shakes their head. “But I know how to find them.”

He does kick ass, magnificently so and Raven doesn’t even have to lift a finger – it’s enough that her skin is red, that her eyes shine golden with grievous promises and that her antlers sit high on her brow. The soul goes after the fleeing demons with a vicious cackle that she hasn’t heard in so long – she starts to call him _Robin_ , even if it’s only in the privacy of her mind.

 

***

 

When they ask him later what he had been thinking – correction: when _Bruce_ asks him later – he tells them that he hadn’t been about to leave their youngest – _Bruce’s biological son_ – alone in a melee that he would have powerless against.

It’s not wrong… it’s just not the entire truth.

 

-

 

Jason knows that they’re too late when they break through the windows and his _Wing_ all but evaporates into thin air in the middle of the Presidential Suite.

He does not stop Damian when he gives the fiercest of war-cries and delves into a battle that he cannot win, wings sleek and shiny in the harsh light of neon and noon; he does not stop the cackling of The Pit that bubbles up in him and tints his vision ugly green much quicker and more vicious than it has ever before and he most certainly does not stop his own hand when it reaches for the gun and embeds at least five iron bullets into the smallest of the three magicians. Mordred goes down with a strangled scream that does _nothing_ to soothe the murder-slaughter-kill-them pounding through his head and heart.

With the magical-mental barrier, he cannot actually take a life, but that does not stop The Pit from wailing for the taste of blood.

For the split of barely a second he wonders about both Dick and Tim at the windows and in his back, before a bird-arang sails past him and towards the outstretched hand of Klarion who had been about to abuse his stalling; it doesn’t connect – sadly – glancing off the force-field Jason can feel pulsing around the Witch in a perfectly drawn circle but it’s enough for him to get his ass back into the game.

The Pit screeches in him with an iron pitch that makes his head hurt and his blood curl, but he ducks, the spell missing his head by inches. He wants to fucking shoot the guy through the head, but even iron can’t penetrate the shields of a Chaos Magician – worse comes to worse the fucker redirects his bullets into the gourd of one of his allies.

However, even as Damian’s gleaming blade faces off with the barrier that Morgana has managed to erect around herself, the element of their surprise attack wanes quickly and Klarion’s lips twitch into an ugly sneer that Jason wouldn’t dare to call a smile even on his worse days when he lifts his fingers just _so_ and the summoning circle lights up in the most sickening shade of red that Jason has ever witnessed.

The JLA are inundated in undead soldiers.

 

-

 

He hears tales of the woman in black – the woman who has told him to call her _Wing_ , as trepid as it is – and given the place he’s in, he only allows for them to influence his image of her so much, because you cannot believe what dead souls will tell you if only to alleviate the boredom of their pending existence. Some of them are malevolent; most are merely thirsting for a twisted game of whatever their rotten brain has conjured up.

_Bluejay cannot impress how relieved he is that none of them have yet gotten close to Mr J concerning the magnitude of their games – even though they’ve landed him in Lava Pits, strung up for about three days and, on one memorable occasion, in Tartarus._

What he hears makes sense and doesn’t. She’s the daughter of a demon; a sorceress; a mistress of the dark; she is pride personified; she is the eater of souls; she is the ruler of shadows; the one that yanks on the chains of the damned; she is at all places at once; she is the rip in dimensions; she will follow in her father’s footsteps – make worlds crumble; she has devoured entire species; she has brought down empires with a single flick of her tail.

There’s a lot of it coursing around and _Bluejay_ has always been a sucker for the good stories – but even so, he can barely make himself believe half of them.

His body is growing without conscious thought and _Bluejay_ has realized, at some point (he doesn’t know how time passes here) that this is not… normal. Granted experiencing a sentient ride through the In-Between could not possibly be described as ‘normal’ but souls… they don’t evolve around here. They come here and remain – some longer than others but the fact is: he should not _grow._

And he does.

 

-

 

They are too late and even when the years of training catch up with him and his body moves without conscious thought to evade and to fight the semi-substantial but not-any-less-threatening bodies around him, he knows that their whole A-Strategy is shot beyond hell.

It is going to take a damn miracle and fucking Constantine to get through this mess and Jason hasn’t even had the chance to say _hello_ to his Wing on this plane of reality.

And he doesn’t remember, later, what happens next, because The Pit wails at him, in him, with him so woefully and mourning that it takes him several moments to even detect his own voice in the auditory maelstrom that suddenly erupts around him: he can hear his heartbeat, the magic zapping around him, the almost soothing rhythm of the fight around him, the pounding steps of the _cavalry_ around him, but he cannot _see_ , which is when it registers that he’s forcing his eyes closed and he really doesn’t want to open them right now because he doesn’t think he could take the visual input to the sickening sensation of vertigo too. Somebody yells, too close for comfort, but he is still going blind and when the darkness from behind his eyelids takes over his body, he doesn’t fight it because this – at least – is soothing oblivion and he hasn’t known that he needs it this badly.

 

***

 

It’s Drake’s desperate cry that makes him aware that something else is not the way it should be, tears him out of the blood-lust that has settled hazily over his conscious when first he has watched his beloved evaporate before his eyes. He spins on his heel, delivers a kick to an opponent that is too close to him, before he slashes the arm of another – it’s a precise cut that wouldn’t have left him dead, if he weren’t already, but nevertheless incapable of using his thumb correctly.

When he finally lays eyes on the red-and-black that is Red Robin viciously fighting his way towards Red Hood, the spit in his mouth vanishes, leaves nothing but saw-dust and sand in his air-ways before he, too, hacks a path towards his brother.

His Second.

Todd has always been so much more than just Bruce’s soldier in the line of many; more than just another person he has had to prove himself to when he’d first taken the mantle of _Robin_. And he has been _more_ long before Damian had come to realize that these people were _Flock_ despite not sharing the genetics that he does with his Father. Todd is the person who has taught him that even though the foetuses in the caverns of Bialya shared his DNA, his wings and his mother, nothing could make them brethren – _brothers_ – the way that Todd had already been by then.

In any other reality the man might have become the White Ghost to his Demon’s Head.

Titanium-Alloy reflects the over-head-lights angrily as he swipes over and under the crowd of _undead_ impeaching him from reaching his goal.

Todd is not… he’s not _dead_ , but he is immobile and that might just be the same thing, interchangeable sides of a coin especially because Klarion gives the man a glare that promises a thousand painful deaths and like _hell_ is he going to let his brother suffer through such a fate again.

But he cannot come closer, is too late when the very same blackness that has been swirling around the Witch rips out of Jason’s chest and sails towards the triumphantly crowing Mage, whose skeleton-wings spread in greedy glee and malicious satisfaction.

He struggles against the arms to hold him back, that bind him to his spot where he is helpless to watch Todd sag to his knees, head lolling upwards as even the last dreg of darkness lifts from his form, leaving him limp and listless as Klarion’s cackle rises through the debauched setting of what has once been a Presidential Suite. Damian thinks that this is a bad place for Todd to leave them.

 

***

 

He doesn’t know that she cannot – will not – do as he commands her, but that is maybe not a bad thing, all things considered. She’s a Princess after all, not a peasantly servant to some run-away Chaos Mage and while she is well aware that her memories are sorely lacking – _he’s stolen her other side_ – the place inside of her that should be empty and willing, the place where his hooks should have sunk until they were so very deep in her essence that nothing else but his word would make sense, is brimming with light, overflowing with _someone_ _else_.

This world is new to her – even though it is familiar to others that she has seen, familiar to some that she has destroyed and devoured in the iron chains resting in her father’s hands. But her father is not on these plains; doesn’t know about this perhaps or simply hasn’t yet made his way here.

She feels coltish as she steps out of the summoning circle, bare feet touching the blood-drenched rug beneath her; she wiggles her toes, hears the squelch of wetness, feels it on her skin.

There is someone in the place that should have been empty and Trigon’s Princess is not stupid, knows that the Witch Boy and his rancid, chaotic magic have nothing to do with the shimmers of _blue_ and _sparkling_ and _protected_ in her; the very same glimpses that she catches now as she feels for the source – feels for the master that she has chosen.

For she must have.

 _Chosen_ that is.

Trigon’s Princess isn’t one to merely be bound to another being. If it weren’t for the magic between her and her father, forged by the blood of a virgin willingly given, the tears of a lover and the semen of a father she wouldn’t be one for answering his call at all. An endeavour in rebellion that her _other half_ has been highly instrumental in until now.

Finding the being that has been deemed strong enough, worthy enough, to tie herself to is impervious to reinstating her other half – reinstating the totality of her memories and her powers; she is useless without them.

The room around her is in mayhem; the people frozen in time that her arrival has ruptured. It’s not for long, she knows. The whimsical Chaos Mage has it in his mind to possess her – which goes to show that he is not even the smallest piece as grand as he believes himself to be. Surely if he were he’d have noticed the brightness within her.

 _There_.

The man.

The boy.

She remembers him – _she_ does; The Princess not her _other half_. She’s met him before, many times, countless times and she knows where he’s been, knows what he’s done, knows what he’s capable of.

 _Yes_ , she thinks as she lowers herself to her knees before him, _yes_.

 

***

 

“Oh god – _fuck_.”—the man sobs into the shoulder of the young woman. It’s an ugly, honest, sound that brings tears and snot with it, shaking hands and octopus-limbs that can’t let go lest the other person might be a figment of imagination.

“I swear you don’t ever make me do that again, you hear me? Oh my god I mean it.”—he heaves a wet breath. “Fuck you.”—he cries hoarsely as he pulls her closer to him, helmet discarded, domino well under way of being so too. “Fuck you so very much.”

The woman, and it’s strange to think of her as such when he’s just _seen_ what she can be, is swallowed in the jacket that the man has thrown over her bare, naked form when it returned – he hasn’t even hesitated about it, hasn’t allowed himself or anyone to see her in such a state before he’s cradled her between the very feet she has just knelt at, asking for orders.

She doesn’t talk much, nuzzles into his embraces, hides in his arms and curls in on herself, trying to shield as much as she can of her vulnerable form from prying minds and eyes alike. He can almost sympathise.

 _And that’s the crux now innit?_ —he thinks as he releases the amulet he’s been clutching in his large coat-pocket. He’s never really seen one of their kind – her kind – willingly do what she has just done. It’s possible to tie demons to another soul, to another being, but there usually is a bargain involved, a bargain for something immortal that a mere human being could never give without corrupting their material self; something that a revived man whose soul has spent its fair share of time in the In Between and away from its own body could, apparently, give.

“Swear to me, my _Wing_ , swear to me that the next time you come to me before shit goes down.”

She doesn’t hesitate.

Swears.

His job here is done. There’s literally nothing for him to see here – nothing he can compute yet anyways.

 


End file.
